


Blind

by valkyrienix (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, blind!Dirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:59:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/valkyrienix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider becomes blind at a very young age and is forced to have a bodyguard with him at all times.  However, he soon develops feelings for his bodyguard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based off chofi's newest au

Your first memory is of your older brother crying. You don’t remember anything past that, save the knowledge that he rarely showed any grief. You’d never heard him cry before. He’d always been so strong and quiet and now he’s in tears. His sobs are loud and choked, like he’s trying to hide it, but he’s not doing very well because you can hear almost every shaky breath he takes.

You toddle over towards his figure and tug at his sleeve but he shakes his head and says that there’s no time to play. He’s got stuff to do. 

He stays on the phone all night talking and sometimes even shouting at voices on the phone. He talks about you sometimes, asking the voices on the phone if they can take care of you for a while, or how he’s supposed to take care of you.

You don’t understand what any of this means. Your mom and dad are supposed to take care of you. They just left for a robotics convention. They should be back soon and then Dave can stop worrying and stop crying and things will be normal again.

You curl up in your bed and tug the blanket over your head and try to ignore what he’s saying but you’re smart enough to know something is up. You only manage to sleep for a few hours, falling asleep late and waking when the sun rose.

Dave is still on the phone but his tones are more hushed, and you think he’s talking to his friend Rose because he only talks this way when he’s talking to her. You come out of your room and tug on his sleeve again and instead of sending you away he ruffles your hair with a sad smile.

“Just you and me now, buddy,” he says softly and you frown.

“Mom and Dad should be back soon,” you say, and he just shakes his head.

“Not this time. They went on a really big trip, Dirk. They won’t be coming back.”

Your lip trembles and you shake your head and yell at him that he’s lying. You tell him that he’s being mean again and trying to make you cry and you’ll tell Mom if he doesn’t stop being stupid. He sighs and pulls you up into his lap and hugs you tight, pulling you against his chest and kissing the top of your head tenderly. “We’re going to go live with Rose and her family. She can help us.”

You move in with Rose’s family right away. She’s got a little sister your age named Roxy but you’re too shy to talk to her much so mostly you cling to Dave. The house is unfamiliar and bigger than your house in Texas, so you have a hard time finding anything. Dave doesn’t seem to mind you hanging around him all the time, and you’re glad because you don’t think you could handle being away from him in a strange new place.

You only get to cling to him for a few more days before you wake up one morning and he isn’t there. You start to cry but then stop because you’re pretty sure he’d want you to be a little stronger than dissolving into tears. He’s always said that Striders don’t cry. They’re strong.

You stumble out of the room, finding your way to where you think Roxy’s room is. It’s a blob of pink and white and black and she’s sitting the center, her blonde hair standing out against the brilliant pink.

You get your tough boy face on and introduce yourself.

“I’m Dirk,” you say.

“Well I already knew that,” she says, and adjusts a stuffed cat at her tea party.

You frown and say, “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

She shakes her head and grabs a pink tea pot. “No. You already know my name.”

You accept she has a point so you come and sit by her and ask to play. She nods and says the tea party was going pretty lame anyways. Mutini was being a rude kitty. He kept spilling his tea because he wanted milk. The cat, which you realize is real, meows as if defending itself. 

You ask if she wants to play ninjas. You tell her she can be the princess and that you can rescue her but she tells you that’s kinda lame, too. She’ll only play if she can be a ninja, too.

“Except I’m a super gorgeous ninja,” she says pointedly and you accede that she can be a girl ninja.

You play ninjas for what seems like hours before you get one of your headaches. You sit promptly and try not to cry. She asks what’s wrong and you tell her to go away. You don’t want to play ninjas anymore. The game was stupid anyway. She gets angry and pounds you on the head.

You glare at her and start to cry as the pain in your head grows. Rose comes running and asks what’s wrong and you tell her that your head started to hurt. She nods understandingly and picks you up. You leave out the part about Roxy hitting you.

Dave comes home after dinner and you’re curled into the bed you share with him. Your head still hurts, only worse, and you have hard time seeing. Dave asks if you wore your glasses today and you shake your head. He tells you that’s why and if he ever catches you without your glasses again he’ll take away your toy puppet, Lil’ Cal. You tell him they don’t help you see much anyway.

He doesn’t say anything to that for a while. Finally he tells you to just keep them on anyway because they’re helping you. You nod, but don’t tell him that your glasses stopped working.

When you turn five, Dave says it’s almost time for you to start school. You don’t understand why you have to, and ask him if you can wait another year. He doesn’t listen and when August hits, he’s enrolled you in kindergarten.

You don’t like it one bit. The classroom is noisy and the other kids are rude and they make fun of you for your bright orange eyes and your glasses. You stop trying to play with them and sit on the jungle gym during recess. The other kids avoid it because they have trouble climbing up it without falling off, but you have no problem reaching the top, even with your eyesight.

You never get to see Dave anymore now. He’s always at work, and when he’s not working, he’s at school. When he’s at home, he’s doing papers and reading textbooks, but sometimes you can distract him enough that he’ll watch a movie with you. It’s always a ninja movie, just the way you both like it.

Usually you fall asleep against him, and when you wake up you’re both curled up on Rose’s couch and his arms are tight around you. He then bounds awake, setting you gently on the couch, still wrapped warmly in whatever blanket Rose had draped across you two that night, and he’d grab books and pencils and his wallet and keys. He wouldn’t bother changing clothes, and would head out the door after kissing your forehead.

Rose takes you to school, but sometimes she lets you stay home and you spend the day together. She reads you stories and tries to help with your letters. To you, the words on the page are just a blob of black squiggles, and it’s hard to make out, even with the stupid glasses Dave makes you wear.

By the end of kindergarten, you still can’t read, so Dave takes you out of school to go to a special teacher. By then, he’s always busy, and so you only ever get to say good morning to him before he’s left. He’s always on the phone now, talking to people, and sometimes men in suits come by the house and you hear them talking about a production, or something like that.

You ask Rose what Dave is doing and she just shakes her head and says, “Trying too hard.”

Sometimes you play with Roxy but she leaves for school and is gone all day so you’re left alone with Rose most of the time. She stays home and types at the computer a lot. She says she’s going to college online because she didn’t really like how it felt in person. You just nod and pretend like you understand.

One morning Rose gets funny, and she’s acting weird. She has a bottle in her hand that says, “Ravenswood,” and when she pours the contents out, it’s a deep purple red. You ask what it is and she tells you it’s her happy drink. You ask if you can have some, too, but she says it’s for adults only. You go back to playing your toys.

Rose starts having her happy drink every morning and at noon. You start avoiding her.

Your eyes start to hurt halfway through the school year and your teacher gives up teaching you how to read. You hear him and Dave arguing before he leaves, and he says, “I can’t teach a blind kid how to read. Find someone to teach him braille!” He leaves after that, leaving Dave silent.

You don’t think you’re blind, but you know you can’t see as well as other people. Dave has perfect vision, because he never wears glasses. Rose does, too. Roxy says she might need glasses, too, but you don’t believe her. You start avoiding playing with Roxy and play by yourself.

A month later and your eyes hurt more, especially when you go outside. Dave starts talking with a strange woman a lot, and it’s always about you. When you ask Rose who it is she says that’s her mom.

Rose’s mom starts giving you eye check-ups, and she gives you a new pair of glasses. You’re astounded by how well you can see now, but you have a hard time dealing with how bright everything is. Dave gets you another teacher, and before long you can read with no problem. He also asks Rose’s mom to get you a pair of prescription sunglasses, and he lets you choose how to design them.

You make them pointy, just like one of your favorite Power Rangers, and Dave lets you. When they come in the mail, they’re not exact, but they’re close enough that you’re satisfied. You start wearing them instead of your regular glasses. The sun stops bothering your eyes, but you get sunburned really easily when you go outside. Dave says that’s okay because he does, too, and you can borrow some of his special sunscreen. He says it’s just something that means you’re apart of the Strider family.

You like that.

When the third grade rolls around, Dave sends you back to school. You’re eight now, and you still have some trouble fitting in with the kids. They still think your glasses are funny, and they laugh at your orange eyes, but they’re not as bad as you remember. You still put up a front anyway, and you act like you don’t care. Roxy helps you with making friends, though, and soon you’re both hanging out with a girl named Jane.

Jane is very quiet and sweet, but she blows up when she gets angry. You think she’s kind of cute when she’s mad but you don’t tell her so. She gets made fun of, too, for her glasses, but her vision isn’t quite so bad. She likes baking a lot, and she often brings you and Roxy cakes or rolls or some pastry that she helped her dad bake.

The three of you become a trio, and it’s rare that you’re separated. You realize how empty you’d felt over the past few years, and now suddenly some part of your heart is filled. You decide you don’t ever want to lose them.

Just when things seem to be going perfect for you, Dave decides it’s time for you two move out of the Lalonde household. He says he got a call from California, and that he needs to be there. He said he’d finally hit it big. You tell him that there’s no way you’re leaving your friends here, let alone the Lalondes, who you’ve decided are family rather than friends.

Dave doesn’t take no for an answer and you leave Seattle for California within the next two weeks. Your new house is kind of big, full of empty rooms, and that empty place in your heart is back again. You start avoiding Dave, and it’s not hard because he’s gone most of the time now anyway. You learn to take care of yourself, making your own meals and doing your own grocery shopping. Dave leaves enough money around the house that you can buy whatever you want.

School doesn’t interest you anymore. The kids are just as rude, but this time there’s no Roxy to help out. You act coldly towards them and they stop bothering you as much. Every once and a while they make a snide comment and you just stare at them from behind your shades.

You finish elementary school alone.

Middle school is even worse because the kids are more obnoxious than before. You get in a lot of fights, and get suspended a few times. Dave has his secretary call you and tell you that he’s very mad at you. You hang up without responding.

You’re enrolled in a robotics class by accident, but you find it’s the one class you enjoy. You start doing robotics in your free time, and pretty soon you’ve built a tiny robotic rabbit. You start working on elaborate programs, too. They take up all of your free time and you’re often alone in your room for hours. Dave makes the comment you don’t go out enough one night when you’re programming. You shut the door on him.

You get pesterchum and find Roxy and Jane on there. You three reconnect, and suddenly you’re not so empty. They tell you absolutely everything since you’d last seen them, and you three are once again the trio, except you’re a rather long way away.

When you start high school Dave stops hanging around the house. He’s always on trips or business or at a premier or something to do with Hollywood. Pictures of you start showing up in the paper. You stop going to school and demand to be homeschooled. Dave complies.

Even with Roxy and Jane talking to you on pesterchum most of the time, you’re feeling more empty than ever. You don’t know how to cope with the feeling so you start watching porn. You’re a high school boy, so you’re supposed to anyway. It’s only natural that you’re curious.

You quickly find out you have zero interest in any of the girls in the flicks and you focus more on the men in them. You worry briefly about what Dave would think but then you remember all the nights he’s brought home both men and women so you stop caring.

You start sinking into a pit. You stop caring about anything. Dave never calls to find out about you, so no one’s really there to stop you. As well as Roxy and Jane know you, they both have a hard time getting past the cool air you put off. Roxy can sometimes get through, but it’s rare. She’s drunk all the time, having taken Rose’s wine for her own and then amassing her own collection of vodka. You have a hard time talking seriously with her. Jane, as much as you love her, is very internally focused, and rarely pays attention to anyone else’s problems.

Most days you stay in bed, lying on your back staring at the ceiling and listening to music. Your caretaker will leave food for you, but he picks it up untouched most days. Sometimes you work on whatever program you have in progress, but when you’re done you go back to your bed. Your caretaker gets worried and calls Dave, but surprise, surprise, he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even call back.

You see he’s on the news that night with some interview. You shut the T.V. off.

Roxy finally notices something’s wrong. She starts pestering you about it, and your phone won’t shut up from all the texts you’re getting from her. You can’t shut her up.

TG: cmon dirky let ol rox kno whats rong  
TT: It’s hard to explain.  
TG: strideeeeeeeeer  
TT: Lalonde.  
TG: >:/  
TG: srsly tho

You sigh and let the screen rest against your face. It’s dark and you’re in bed. You guess you’re going to have to give her something.

TT:I feel… empty, I guess.

She takes a while to respond. You almost fall asleep when your phone vibrates your glasses and you almost jump out of your pants.

TG: emtpy?  
TG:: *empyt  
TG: u kno what i mean

You take a deep breath.

TT: Yeah.  
TG: whats there 2 b empty about  
TG: is it dave  
TT: No.  
TG: r u sure  
TG: hes never there  
TG: i mean thas kinda prime material for abandonment issues  
TG: hes basically ur dad  
TT: I don’t care about Dave, Roxy.  
TG: u miss him dontcha  
TT: …  
TT: Yeah.

She doesn’t answer after that so you assume she probably fell asleep, drunk. You stare at the messages for a while before dialing. It rings a few times, and you expect it to go to voicemail. It doesn’t.

“Hello?”

Dave’s voice sends a rush through your blood and you almost cry. That empty part of you fills up a tad. But you don’t. Striders don’t cry. “Dave?”

“What is it, Dirk? I’m kinda busy right now.” His voice is a flat line and any relief you’d gained from the sound of his voice vanishes. The void opens back up.

“When are you coming home?” you say softly.

“Soon. I’ve got stuff to take care of. Is that really the only reason why you called?” He says, exasperated.

Your grip on the phone tightens. “Just want to check up on big bro. Clearly, a mistake.”

“I’m about to go into a meeting. So uh… yeah,” he says. He starts to say something else but you press end because you can’t stand to hear another word. You stare at the screen again before throwing your phone as hard as you can into the closet. You don’t look to see if it’s broken or not.

You go down the stairs two at a time and fling open the cabinets. You grab the first bottle you see and crack it open. The alcohol burns your nose with the first swig but the more you drink the better it feels and suddenly you do not fucking care. It feels great. You do not fucking care.

The bottle is gone before you know it and you move on to the next one. You see why Roxy is always drinking. You don’t have to care anymore and it’s great. You drink and drink and drink until you can hardly see straight. There’s no difference in your vision with your glasses on or your glasses off.

You fall asleep in the kitchen, sprawled across the floor with a bottle of whiskey in your hands. When you wake up, there are voices that you don’t recognize. Groggily, you open your eyes and fumble for your shades. You can’t find them. Above you are two blurry figures that had been whispering until you had opened your eyes.

“Dave?” you croak.

There’s no answer, and you close your eyes again, groaning. “Can you hand me my shades?”

This time, you get a response you weren’t expecting. “You’re the Strider brat?”

You crack an eye open. “What of it?”

A sharp boot connects with your hip and a curse hisses from your mouth. They kick you again, and again and again. You don’t move to defend yourself. Your head is still swimming with alcohol and it barely registers that you’re being attacked. By the time it finally does, you’re so bruised you can hardly get up. You certainly try, but one of them stamps their boot into your ribs, effectively flooring you.

“Where’s your brother?” one of them hisses and that evokes a laugh from you.

“Fuck if I know,” you slur, “Doesn’t have time to be home.”

They curse and kick you again. They start whispering to each other, and you make out a few things about the subliminal messaging in Dave’s movies. You know Dave likes to hide things in his movies but you’ve never really cared to pay attention to them. You’ve watched them all, but that doesn’t mean you actually paid enough attention to get anything.

They come back over to you, and you try to make out their faces as best you can. No matter how hard you squint, you can’t make out anything except a jagged scar across one man’s lip. “Nothing against you, kid,” the scarred one says, “but your brother needs to learn a fucking lesson.”

There’s the crack of a match. Something looms towards your eyes, unbearably bright and hot.

That’s the last thing you see before it’s all black.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re fired,” you say again, and the man splutters several times before protesting again. You let him go on, drumming your fingers on your knee and half-listening. The protests are empty, the excuses fake. You listen patiently, but nothing’s going to change your mind. He falls silent after another five minutes, breathing hard. You sigh, and once again say, “You’re fired. Get out.”

He shouts one last curse at you and leaves the room, giving you blessed silence. “That was rough,” says a voice, but you ignore it. You don’t have time for Hal’s shenanigans today. He was probably the least helpful auto responder in the history of auto responders. You’d designed him to be just like you, and you find that you can’t stand yourself. You need a new bodyguard now, though. Stat.

You dig in your pocket for the cool metal of your phone. Your fingers wrap around it and you fumble for the button that allows voice recognition. Finding it, you press down on it hard. “Call Roxy,” you say. There’s the sound of dialing and then it rings. You hold the phone up against your ear and wait for an answer.

“Y’ello?” comes her voice. It’s only slightly slurred, which means she’s sober enough to be out of the house.

“Hey, Lalonde, the deal’s done,” you say.

“That stupid hunk of meat’s gone for good?” she says, her voice heightening with excitement. You hear a crash in the background, and Roxy’s hurried apologies.

“Yeah. I fired him,” you say, once you’re sure she’s done. “Now I need someone new.”

“I think Janey knows someone,” she says thoughtfully, continuing like nothing happened. “He’s kinda obnoxious sometimes though. Really obsessed with ‘adventure.’”

“And this one wasn’t obnoxious?” you say, feeling around the desk, grabbing onto a pen, and then twirling it in your fingers.

“He’s… obnoxious in a different way,” she says hesitantly, “I dunno, I think you guys might get along. He’s pretty friendly. Polite like you wouldn’t _believe._ ” There’s a clang of something hitting metal, like a bag of cereal being dumped into a shopping cart. The grocery store?

“I’m not looking to get along with anyone,” you say flatly, dropping the pen by accident. You feel around the floor with your foot until you step on something shaped like a pen. You bend over and grab onto it, twirling it in your fingers again. “I’m looking for someone who does their job and doesn’t sneak off thinking I won’t notice.”

“Well then this guy’s pretty great. He’s looking for a job, too.”

“Is he now…?” You adjust your shades, which are slipping from your nose. “Send him in sometime, I guess. I don’t want Dave to be the one to hire my bodyguard, so I might as well give this guy a shot.”

“You got it, Dirky!” she says excitedly, “Hey, do you want any wine from here?”

“No thanks,” you say, grimacing. Definitely the grocery store. “I’d rather not.”

“Alriiight,” she says in her most tempting voice, but she hangs up anyway. You tuck the phone back into your pocket and lean back in your chair. A deep sigh escapes you. Hopefully this guy is the right one for you. The last three bodyguards had been assholes who hadn’t listened to you, and the last one had rarely even shown up for the job.

You stand up slowly, picking up your cane and making your way for the door. You’re tired of the quiet air of Dave’s office.

== >

“Alright, alright, Jane, calm yourself! I’ll go in for a damn interview. Will you stop pestering me now?” you exclaim.

You hear her laugh on the phone. “Possibly. I just think you’d really like this job.”

“Being a bodyguard?” you grumble, “I’ve never done anything of the sort in my life, though!” You pull out another pair of shorts from your suitcase and place them neatly in your drawer.

“It’ll be an adventure,” she says, and you groan.

“Crocker, I swear to all that is good and holy, if you say that one more time I won’t go to the interview. Not even for a second.” You stomp your foot meaningfully.

“Alright, alright,” she says, giggling. “Jake, I’ve got to finish these cookies. Call me after the interview and tell me how it goes!”

“Will do,” you reply, “Good-bye!”

“Bye, Jake.”

You hang up, and flip your phone closed, stuffing it in one of your pockets. You return to look at your room, nearly bare still. You had only managed to set up the bed and the dresser. You’d yet to set up much else in your apartment. You’d planned to finish the rest today, but now you’re rather reluctant. Part of being a bodyguard no doubt meant that you’d have to live with your employer. Being a bodyguard wasn’t something you could really take a break from. You wonder if the fellow has a few other brutes so you could take a day or two off to explore San Francisco.

Jane said he lived in the city by himself, in an apartment. He was in Los Angeles at the moment, meeting with his brother, but he’d be back by tomorrow. He wanted an interview at 3:00 p.m that day. Which suited you perfectly, but you wonder if you’re going to stay in the apartment with him if you _do_ happen to get the job.

You pull out your pistols. You’d make an excellent bodyguard. You’re an expert at these beauties. You wonder why the devil this man needs a bodyguard. Was he a coward, perhaps? Or was he someone famous? You’d never heard of a Dirk Strider. You suppose that might be due to the fact that you’d only just moved to America last week. Previously, you’d lived in Australia, and before that you’d lived in Britain. You’d come to America to connect with your cousin, Jane Crocker. You’d talked with her often online, and you thought it was about time to connect with the only family you had left, since your grandmother had died in a car accident earlier that year.

You blink back tears and try to move on from that subject. You decide you ought to text Jane and determine who the dickens this Strider chap was anyway. You can’t exactly go into a job blind, can you? You put your pistols away in the uppermost drawer and pull out your phone again, flipping it open.

GT: Sorry to bother you janey but i have a question!

She takes a few minutes to respond, so you continue to unpack your clothing into the dresser. You suppose it might be a little redundant if you have to repack them later, but who said you were going to take the job? Jane had only suggested taking it.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you open the message.

GG: You’re lucky I just finished putting the cookies in the oven. :B  
GG: What is it?  
GT: Well just exactly who *is* this strider?  
GT: Why does he need a bodyguard?

She takes another few minutes to respond.

GG: Why didn’t you just ask me this on the phone, silly!  
GT:The question hadnt occurred to me!!  
GG: :P  
GG: Have you ever seen the SBAHJ movies?  
GT: Well yes but what have they got to do with this dirk strider?  
GG: You know who directed those movies, right?  
GT: Dave strider.  
GT: …  
GT: Youre not saying…?  
GG: That is exactly what I am saying, Jake.

You sit back for a moment and stare at the message for a moment longer. Cripes, you don’t know if you have the capability to guard the brother of the famous Dave Strider! You suppose it’s worth a shot, because after all, no one can beat you in a shoot off, but you’re not sure you have the capacity to handle it all.

Your phone buzzes again.

GG: Jake…  
GT: What?  
GG: You know what I’m going to say. :B  
GT: Blast it all i *know!*  
GT: Ill give it a shot.  
GG: Good.  
GT: This had better be the adventure of a lifetime.  
GG: I think Mr. Strider can cover that.

You certainly hope so.

== >

You sigh and lean your head back against the chair. You’re back in Dave’s office. It’s early morning and he’s already lecturing you. You’d remind him that you’re twenty-three years old and more than capable of taking care of yourself, but you know he’d point out your disability. Dave continues on though, despite your obvious reluctance. “Look, Dirk, I’m just worried about you and I would much rather hire someone myself to look after you than have you do it. The last two guys you hired were complete shitheads.”

“I’m aware,” you say, but he continues on still.

“Look, I know you’re older now and you want to take care of yourself, but let’s face it. You can’t. You’re blind.”

Your insides go cold. You’re taken back to that night, when the two men had attacked you. You’d thought they were going to burn your eyes out with that match. But at the last moment, they’d stopped. You’d squeezed your eyes shut but you could still hear. They had a better way. They’d taken chemicals, forced your eyes open and poured them in. You hadn’t even managed to see anything before your eyes were filled with burning liquid. You’d been in such pain you’d screamed. You’d screamed so loud that the neighbors had heard you and called the police. But by the time they’d gotten there, the culprits had already left, and you were unconscious. It had felt as if your eye was on fire, and that your head was going to burst. You’d woken up in the hospital, a day later, Dave’s assistant by your bedside, and a voicemail from Dave asking if you were okay. You couldn’t see a thing. 

“And whose fault is that?” you murmur, picking at a hole in your jeans. You keep your face carefully stoic.

“Not mine. You’re the one who got drunk off his ass and decided to camp out in the kitchen. You’re more than capable of taking anyone down,” he hisses at you.

“I am _now_ ,” you say quietly, “But you insist on a bodyguard.”

“You can’t fucking see, Dirk.”

“Obviously you can’t either.”

He slams his hand down on his desk. “This conversation’s over. _I’m_ hiring you a new bodyguard.”

“I’ve already got an interview this afternoon,” you say, and you manage to pull a seam from the rip in your jeans.

The annoyance is clear in his voice. He hates that you refuse to wear the designer clothes he gets you. He hates that you haven’t embraced the movie star’s brother life. “Conduct the interview. I’ll decide whether or not this one gets hired.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me, Dave. I moved out for a reason.”

“Against my better wishes.”

“I came down here to visit my older bro, not to get lectured by my father,” you say.

“This conversation’s over. If this guy’s a dud, then I get to hire the next one,” he says, sighing.

“Great,” you say, and grab your cane. “About time. You’ve made me late for a date with a hot babe.” You turn on your heel and leave the room. Roxy’s waiting just outside the door. Her cool, smooth palms grab onto your arm, and she delicately tucks her arm into yours.

“That went well,” she says, and there’s a loud pop. The scent of bubblegum wafts into your nose.

You snort. “If you say so. He likes to point out that I have no taste in men.”

Her shoulders bob up and down in a shrug. “He’s got a point there, Strider. You sure can pick ‘em.”

You shrug, too. “The last one was great before he realized who I was.”

“Your last boyfriend is in prison, Dirk.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” you say with a slight smile. “Ready to get out of here?”

There’s another loud pop. “You betcha.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Apartment?_ It’s all you can do to keep from snorting. This… this… palace! It was the farthest thing you’d ever come across from an apartment. It would be more accurate to call it a penthouse suite. The doors were engraved with a silver “S,” and the doorknobs were shaped like gears. The luxury of it all! You thought that was somewhat ridiculous, but who were you to criticize? You were an unemployed foreigner who had only just managed to gain citizenship here.

You gulp and raise your hand to knock on the door. Cripes, you’re not sure you can do this. This was a mistake. Why did you ever let dear old Janey talk you into this? She talks you into a lot of things, but normally you know where to say no. You know what you’re capable of. You should have said no to this. You’re not cut out for anything like this. You’re more of the… rough and tumble adventurer, not the classy suits adventurer. 

Oh, _bother._

It’s not like you can stop now, though. The appointment had been set, and there was no way you could just leave without at least saying hello. It would be rude. Ungentlemanly to the extreme. And you were anything but ungentlemanly. You were the farthest thing from. Or so you hope. You had to at least pop in and say you weren’t interested and that you’re terribly sorry for wasting his time.

You take a deep breath and raise your hand to knock again when it flies open. A woman around twenty comes out laughing hysterically, snorting in the most adorable manner. You bring your hand down from the knocker and step aside as she walks past. She trips over her own shoes though and somehow manages to fall right into you. 

The smell of cheap wine and bubblegum wafts up to your nose as you catch her. Her breasts crush against your chest and you find your cheeks are reddening. Her giggle-snorts only increase though when she sees your embarrassment, and then she attempts to compose herself, wiping spittle from her mouth and standing upright. She only manages to smear her black lipstick right across her face and stumble to lean against the wall.

“Madame…” you say hesitantly, but she just laughs harder.

“You look… jus’like Janey, Misser English,” she slurs, and cackles again.

You blink several times. “You know Jane?”

“Yeah, we’re bffsies,” she says, still laughing.

“Oh… Well I had no idea! Pleasure to meet you!” you say as politely as you can.

She shakes her head, the laughter finally subdued to a grin. “Go on in. Dirky’s waitin’ for you.” She turns and stumbles towards the elevator, twiddling her fingers at you as the doors slide shut.

You gulp. _Dirky?_ You glance at the open door and tentatively walk in. Immediately, you’re assaulted with the smell of the girl’s cheap wine, and the overwhelming smell of cheap orange soda. Western Family orange soda? That would probably be it. The stuff was horribly smelly. You don’t understand how people drink it.

The apartment starts out bare. The walls are empty, the floors an immaculate white. You cringe with every step you take as your boots leave dirty prints on the floor. And these were your best boots, too. You couldn’t imagine how dark the prints would be with your everyday ones.

You wander in a little further, unsure how to best do this and in the most professional way. You’re tempted to call out a “halloo” but that would probably be somewhat rude. Granted, you’re not sure what this Strider fellow considers rude. He might be fairly lax on manners if the girl who stumbled out was anything to go by. Not that you thought she was rude! She wasn’t. She just… well she certainly wasn’t acting professionally. You wonder if perhaps she and Strider were in some sort of romantic relationship? It seems fairly likely.

You’re jolted out of your observations by a warm hand covering your mouth. “You’re pretty noisy for a potential bodyguard.” You freeze momentarily, then whip away, turning to face the owner of the hand. Before you, you’re surprised to see a man in his early twenties; your age. He’s a tad bit taller than you are, perhaps a few inches or so, but his physique is far thinner than yours. Where you have bulk, he as lean muscle. Upon his freckled nose sits a pair of pointed shades, and you think they’re somewhat ridiculous, but you decide to neglect to comment.

“Are you another bodyguard for Mr. Strider?” you say slowly and uncertainly.

“You could say that,” he says vaguely.

You frown slightly. Something about the man deeply unsettles you. You’re not quite sure what, but you think it has something to do with how his posture is not quite right, or how he’s not directly facing you. You can’t even tell if he’s meeting your eyes from behind those godforsaken shades.

“Is Mr. Strider here then? I’m supposed to have an intervi--”

“I’m aware,” he interrupts, “I’m the interviewer.”

Your frown deepens. “Not Mr. Strider?”

He shakes his head. “He’s got business to attend to.”

“But the woman just out there--”

“Roxy? She’s drunk.”

“Well yes but…” He raises a brow. You quiet for a moment and then continue. “Well then, I suppose I ought to say that I’m not--”

Before you can even finish your sentence he’s got you in a death grip and you’re against the wall. “If you can beat me, you’re hired,” he says flatly, his thumb stroking your jaw slowly while the rest of his hand remains tightly gripping you.

“Ah, yes, see I wanted to say something about, this ah, whole interview,” you say in alarm, “I actually have--”

He suddenly twists and your back is pressed against his body, his arm pressed against your Adam’s apple. The scent of cologne and oranges envelopes you and your vision goes blurry for a moment. You can feel the built muscle of his abdomen pressing against you, and you are, needless to say, shocked. “What’s that?” he says.

“What counts as winning?” you say tightly, shaking yourself from distraction.

He frowns. “Good question. I’ll tell you when.” There’s a whoosh of air and you’re on the ground under his foot. He doesn’t look down at you. “Go on,” he says, enunciating every syllable. “Are you a good bodyguard… or not?”

You grunt and roll out from under his foot, standing on your feet again. You stare at him for a moment. He doesn’t move. His posture remains slightly hunched over, and he continues to not fully face you. You squint further.

“Well?” he says.

You don’t respond. There’s something so off about this man but you just can’t place it! What the devil was it though?! Perhaps he was just that good at his job that you could never hope to surpass him? Was that what struck you as off? That you might have met someone far better than yourself?

“Mr. English?” he says expectantly, jolting you from your thoughts. “Did you give up?”

You shake your head. “Not a chance!” You put up your fists, prepared for battle. “Go on then!” you say.

He shakes his head. “No. You attack me.”

“Oh,” you say, but once again you’re disconcerted with this man. Wasn’t a bodyguard supposed to solely defend? There wasn’t any point in being the attacker. It didn’t show anything about your defense skills. It probably would just portray you has some dumb brute.

You straighten. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Oh?” he says, and he raises his blond brows one more.

“That doesn’t show you anything about my defense skills. I’m supposed to be protecting Mr. Strider, not attacking him. Or anyone else for that matter,” you say, “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see him.”

A grin cracks across his face. His lips spread out wide, revealing brilliant white teeth, straight and perfect. The canines are a bit sharp, but so are yours. It’s so sudden and so brilliant you’d never have seen it coming. You didn’t even think that the man’s face had the capacity to smile. A smirk, perhaps, but that hardly counts as a smile.

“Sir?” you say expectantly.

“You’re talking to him, right now, English. You’re hired,” he says, still smiling.

You blink several times. “Excuse me?”

He stand straight up, to his full height. “I’m Dirk Strider, and you’re now my bodyguard.”

“Ah… Well ah… Wait _what?_ ”

He chuckles. “You’re now my bodyguard.”

“Th-that… that fistfight hardly counts as an interview!” you splutter, “I don’t even know what the devil this job requires of me! Let alone what it pays! I just stopped by to say sorry, Mr. Strider, sir, but there’s not a chance in hell or above that I could ever accept this position, thanks very much, have a cheery day. Tootloo!”

Mr. Strider’s smile has shrunk to an amused smirk. “You’ll get paid $75,000 a year. Sound decent enough? I’d offer you more, but I’m on a budget these days. You know, the economy. That stuff.”

You splutter again. “Seventy fi-- Now see here! I c-can’t do this! You didn’t even see if I could defend you, let alone what experience I’ve had! I do not think I am qualified for this job! Sir!” Cripes! You’re about ready to strangle him! Did he know anything at all about hiring a bodyguard?!

“You’re talking yourself out of a job that had the easiest interview ever,” he says, remaining still, smirk and amusement having vanished. “I’m damn sure you’re qualified.”

“Why in God’s name do you need a bodyguard anyway?!” you say with frustration. You know you’ve moved past the point of carefully choosing your words and acting the part of the gentleman. But at the moment your knickers are so twisted you can’t even dream of staying polite with this fellow.

“I wouldn’t constitute your duties to solely being my bodyguard,” he says thoughtfully. “I need a caretaker, too.”

“A caretaker…?” You look him up and down. He seemed fit enough. He was obviously more than capable of defending himself. Why ever would he need someone to care for him?

“Yeah. Roxy’s been doing it for years now, but only because we’re practically siblings. Jane, your cousin, helps, as well. But only in her spare time. I don’t think I need to drag them from their lives any longer when I can hire a bodyguard and a caretaker.”

“What do you need one for, exactly?” you say, frowning.

He sighs, and a wry smile crosses his face for a moment, but it’s brief and fleeting. You’re not even sure it was even there. “I suppose if you’re going to be helping me, you’ll have to know, won’t you? Wouldn’t want you fumbling around blindly.” He laughs.

“Sir?”

With a deep breath, he says, slowly and perhaps a tad bit proudly, “I’m blind.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a bit short, sorry :u i felt that where it ends it the proper place to do so  
> also if you guys have any pressing questions, my tumblr is yourparabatai, and i can guarantee a more immediate response than from right here.  
> yep  
> enjoooy

There’s silence. You can probably guess this guy’s face is shocked. You don’t act blind when you fight. You’re not. You can see just as well without your eyes in a fight than without one. You’re an expert at using your other senses to see. And this guy was probably the loudest person possible. His boots had clunked across the floor when he’d first walked in, and you could hear his embarrassment when Roxy had stumbled out the door all the way from the kitchen. You’d easily found him in the middle of the front room and had jumped him from behind. You could _feel_ his footsteps across the floor. You don’t think the guy even understood the definition of graceful. No one knows you’re blind until you grab your cane. No one.

You don’t, however, doubt that he could win in a fight. You could feel the muscles rippling underneath his clothing as you’d slammed him from the wall to the floor, and as he’d been against your chest. You’d felt the unrelenting wall of his abdomen under your Converse, and had gripped at his arms. There’d been the potential there for him to brutally put you down if he’d wanted. You’re quick, and you could have moved away easily (because, hell, no one beats you), but Jake English wasn’t a man to underestimate.

“You’re… blind?” he says softly. There’s the rustling of clothes as he shifts from foot to foot.

“Yeah,” you say, and you make your way slowly to grab your cane from the adjacent room. You come back in, twirling it.

“How the devil then…” he starts to say, but he trails off.

“I had a pretty good trainer,” you say. When you woke up in the hospital, you felt more helpless than ever. You had no way to defend yourself against anyone, and you hated it. The first thing you wanted to do when you woke up was beat the living shit out of the bastards that had done this to you. That, or make sure that shit never happened again. When Dave _finally_ showed up, you’d pleaded with him to have a personal trainer. You’d argued with him for hours over its necessity, and he’d finally relented, if a bit begrudgingly. He hired a blind woman to help you learn to fight, and had then promptly left for the set of his new movie. 

At first you’d been skeptical of the woman, but it had turned out to be a good decision. She’d definitely been eccentric, insisting that you could see through taste and smell. You certainly were more sensitive to scents now, but she claimed to see perfectly through both. You highly doubted it, but didn’t question her. You did, however, refuse to lick anything. Ever.

“Come on, cool kid,” she’d insisted with her crackly voice. Her hand had rested lightly on your shoulder, sending waves of annoyance and goosebumps up your neck. She was a very touchy-feely person. You’d tried to shift away, but her grip was firm. “You’ll love seeing this way.”

“I’d rather not lick the floor anyone could have touched,” you had said.

“At least learn what things smell like,” she’d replied.

You’d grunted in response, and she’d taken that as a yes and had shoved a pomegranate under your nose. She’d taken about two months alone of your training on teaching you to smell. Of course, she still taught you to fight in that time, but those lessons were brief, and she focused more on smell. You still don’t use your nose quite like she does, but it definitely helps you become more aware of your surroundings than you had been before.

“You can’t see me, then?” Jake asks, jarring you back to the real world.

You shake your head. “Not a single hair on your head.”

“How do you know I have hair?” he says somewhat defensively, “I could be bald!”

“I just wrestled with you, bro,” you say, snorting, “You definitely have hair. Especially on your legs. Goddamn.”

“Oh,” he says.

“So,” you say slowly, “Do want the job? Or not?”

“Am I to stay here then?” he says.

“Yeah, it would certainly make things a hell of a lot easier, but you can always get an apartment in the building. It’s just hella expensive.”

He makes a noise of exasperation, and mumbles something along the lines of, “Damn palace!” You ignore it and continue on, but a smile threatens to break through your mask again.

“You can stop babysitting me after dinner though, if you stay here. It’s not exactly fair if I made you stay with me all the time. And you can have weekends off.” You pause, and then say, “I hope you can cook. I’m not allowed near fire.” You’d burned half the kitchen down once when you’d tried making dinner for yourself, despite Jane’s protests.

“I’m a fairly good chef, if I do say so myself.” He chuckles, the laugh deep and resounding.

“Is that a yes?” you say hopefully. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like Jake English. You like his dorky manner of speaking, not to mention his voice with that completely fuckable _accent._ You’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to the guy. You’d wrestled him enough to get a good feel for his build. You can almost paint a picture in your head of what exactly he looks like. Of course, you still hadn’t felt his face, but you’d be one invasive dude for smacking your hand on his face just to see if the boner you’ve been holding back is justified. You’d be lying about a lot of things if you didn’t hire him.

“Yes,” he says slowly, “But please don’t hold it against me if I take some time getting things right. I’ve never quite had a position such as this. The most I’ve done is care for my grandmother’s golden retriever.”

“No problem,” you say, shrugging nonchalantly. Inside, however, you can feel the fireworks in your chest. They’re snapping and crackling and you can barely hold them back. “I won’t hold it against you if you burn dinner once or twice.”

“Well I assume I’m also to pay bills, and clean, and do the grocery shopping,” he says, shifting to a different foot.

“Grocery shopping and bills,” you reply, “My older bro has a cleaning lady for me. Just make sure you do bills right and you can fuck up on groceries all you want.”

“Oh,” he says, “So no cleaning then?”

You shake your head. “Nah.”

“Well then, I s’pose you’ve got your man!” he says, and you can hear his grin. A chill runs down your back as you feel his fingers wrap around your hand. They’re rough, callused, and large. The feeling is foreign to your own hand. He brings it upward, shaking it heartily. Under normal circumstances, you’d have jerked your hand away, but for some reason his touch doesn’t offend. You feel… comfortable with it.

“Calm down there, English,” you say with a light laugh, “This isn’t exactly a dream job.”

“No, I s’pose not, but I’ve the feeling I’m going to enjoy this occupation quite a bit.” He releases your hand. The absence of warmth comes as a shock, and you let your hand fall uselessly back to your side.

“You start Monday then,” you say, “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. English.”

“And you as well, Mr. Strider!” he exclaims, “Monday it is then! I’ll see you then.” He takes your hand again, and your heart almost skips a beat as he’s shaking it again. He drops it just as quickly as he’d taken it, and his boots clunk noisily out of the room. You’re alone again. You walk into the other room, finding the couch with a flick of your cane. With a sigh of relief, you collapse into it and try to breathe.

== >

GT: Im back from the interview janey!  
GG: Oh? And how’d it go?  
GT: Well it was certainly odd!  
GT: Did you know dirk strider is blind?  
GT: I hadnt a clue!!  
GT: Cripes and hes certainly got an odd sense of humor.  
GT: And hes somewhat standoffish.  
GT: Do you suppose dave is like that?  
GG: Whoa, slow down there, Jake!  
GG: Golly.  
GT: Oops! Sorry jane. The whole thing was such an adventure though! Just like youd promised!  
GG: Told you! Dirk’s an old friend.  
GT: *Really?!* Why didnt you say so in the first place!  
GG: Did you get the job? :B  
GT: I did! I think i charmed him with my gentlemanly ways.  
GG: Of course.  
GG: When do you start then?  
GT: Monday!  
GG: Great!  
GG: Have fun!  
GT: I think i just might. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _that fuckable accent_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao sorry for the wait folks school is after all a thing

Monday doesn’t come fast enough. You spend the weekend pacing your room and sitting at your computer programming or working on the new song you’ve got in the works. You end up deleting half of it and starting over, several times, before you’re even close to satisfied. It’s still not your best, but you can work with it later when you’re not tripping over yourself in anxious anticipation. Which, you admit to yourself, you totally are.

You don’t understand why. It’s just some British dork who’s going to do your household chores. Which isn’t really hard if you can see. And you’re not too messy. It’s just your bedroom that’s the real mess, and you hardly let anymore ever touch whatever shit you’ve got in there. If it’s on the floor, it’s on the floor for a reason and you know it’s there. You’ll be damned if someone touches it.

You’ve always been a neurotic person though. You have a hard time going into the public, regardless of your idiot older brother’s fame and fortune. People just aren’t your thing. You’d rather stay at home on your computer than socialize with idiots and assholes who you couldn’t give the time of day for.

Ugh, why does this have to be so complicated?

Roxy calls you a couple times, asking when she gets to meet the “stripping young lad.” You tell her as soon as she can say strapping without accidentally saying stripping. Her snorting laughter echoes in your ears for hours afterward.

Sunday night comes and Jane drops by your place with dinner and a pan full of cookies. You have a hard time eating, and listen to her talk about her job and how excited she is that she’s been named the heiress to Crockercorp. You inform her to do her best to avoid the Paparazzi and she confesses to you that she’s wearing one of her many disguises at the moment to hide from them. You applaud her and tell her that’s better than you’ve ever managed with the dickbags.

She leaves after you promise to at least finish her casserole. You promise you will but you end up letting it sit on the table for hours until its cold and inedible by the time you remember. You throw it out and sit at the table for a while longer, running you hands over the surface of the table and picking at the faults. It’s then that you remember you never actually specified what time for English to show up and _oh shit_ now you’ve got another thing riding on your anxiety. When is this dude going to show up and what do I expect and _wow this was a really bad decision._

You let a breath hiss out of you before you stand up and grab your cane, making your way to your bedroom. You sprawl out over the vastness of your bed on your stomach, squishing your face into the soft comforters and allowing the smell of lemon-scented laundry detergent to waft its way into your nose. You end up drifting off, your shades pressed uncomfortably to your face and your belt digging into your stomach. 

It’s hours before you regain consciousness, and when you wake up, your head hurts and your back aches, so you flip over groggily. You groan and arch your back, and there’s a loud crack as it pops. You lay there for a few more moments, listening to the silence of your house.

“Hal,” you say, your voice still rough with sleep, “The time?”

“It’s approximately 11:21 a.m,” he says from his speaker’s vantage point on the desk. “Oh, and the one with the ass is here.”

“The who with the what?” You grunt as you sit up, more bones in various places creaking and popping.

“The one with the nice ass,” he replies. “I don’t know if you remember, but you’re expecting company today.”

The sudden smell of bacon overwhelms you, and you nearly choke on your spit because you realize that today’s the day Jake English is supposed to start working for you. You leap out of bed, ignoring Hal’s commentary on your appearance, feeling for your cane and establishing where you are in your room before you’re out into the kitchen as fast you can. There’s the sizzling of grease and the faint buzzing of the coffeemaker. There’s also a male’s voice humming and you can only assume that its Jake English. You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to say or do. You’re lucky because he apparently spots you and his humming stops.

“Good morning to you!” he says cheerily.

“Hey,” is all you can manage.

“Sorry to barge in unannounced,” he says, “The movers came in early this morning and had all my stuff packed up and ready to go in an hour. So I really didn’t know what else to do. I went over to dear old Jane’s, but she wouldn’t let me in. Gave me a key to here though and told me to get started.”

You nod slowly. “How long have you been here?” you say.

“Long enough to start breakfast,” he says, and he starts to say something more, but Hal cuts in.

“About twenty minutes and thirty seven seconds.” he says, his voice coming from the microwave. A startled noise escapes Jake and there’s a little tap as his boots fall back down to the floor. You almost snicker but you don’t have to because Hal does for you.

“Hey there, sugarbutt,” he says through his laughter.

Jake splutters, fumbling for words before he finally murmurs the pet name with astonished embarrassment. You regret not being able to see his face, and Hal quickly voices this. You decide then that you also regret having made Hal a copy of yourself from a few years ago.

“It’s a shame you’re blind, Dirk,” Hal continues, “You should see this dude’s ass in his shorts. It’s like he’s asking to be groped.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “That’s enough, Hal,” you say softly.

He silences, but you know he’s going to make more comments later when you’re not there to monitor. You do admit though that you’d bet good money on this dude’s ass. During your “match” in the front room, you’d gotten a few good grabs here and there and you can happily say this dude’s built.

“So is the truck here?” you say and sit down. You decide to ignore the fact that he came into your house uninvited because he’s going to start living here today and you’d better get used to it. The concept makes your stomach flutter uncomfortably, but you blame that on unreleased gas.

“Right out front! The lady at the front desk gave me some awfully weird looks when they drove up in it with me. Cripes, I thought her eyes were going to stab me! She’s not a very pleasant woman. Did you hire her, perchance? If so, you made a horrid choice. She’s very threatening.”

“I don’t have much of say of who this joint hires,” you say, facing his general direction. The bacon stops sizzling, and you assume it’s done and being served up on a plate. There’s the clink of glass as a plate is placed on the table and you fumble for it, finally finding it and grabbing a piece of bacon. It’s still hot, but not hot enough for you to wait to eat. You gladly take a few more pieces after the first initial one while you listen to Jake babble.

“The other people down there must live in fear of that old hag. She’s a positive _nightmare_ , Mr. Strider--”

“Dirk,” you say through a mouthful of bacon.

“Hmm?” He stops his chatter.

You swallow quickly, the unchewed bits going down your throat rather uncomfortably. “It’s just Dirk. Mr. Strider is my brother,” you say.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s silent for a few moments. You take that opportunity to grab more of the bacon. He made a lot, and you won’t put it to waste. “Dirk, then,” he says finally.

“Don’t feel weird about it, dude,” you say, swallowing again. “We’re going to be living together, so we might as well be casual.”

“Right,” he replies slowly, and the hum of the coffee machine stops and there’s more clinking of glass. “I suppose you’re right. I’m just accustomed to employees being polite, is all. My grandma had someone taking care of her for a bit. Always called her Mrs. Harley. She’s on my mother’s side, mind, so that’s why there’s a difference in last names. She was quite the woman, even in her old age. She still worked on her engineering hobbies even at the age of eighty-seven. _Eighty-seven_. She only hired someone to help her out at the request of her son and her nephew. Her nephew being dear old Jane’s Dad. She was quite the woman. Quite the woman…” He trails off, his excited demeanor fading out with the clunk of two coffee mugs being placed on the table. You reach for one, enjoying the warmth that floods your hand and the strong scent of coffee invading your nose.

“Engineering, huh?” you say, and take a sip, wincing as it burns your tongue. It’s nice and strong, just the way you like it.

“Yes!” he says with another burst of energy, “She liked to build robots and program things. She always had at least three different computers on her person, in case one failed. I’ve taken up something of the same habit, but they’re not really _computers, per se_ , but they do allow me to access the net and store files and other such necessities that come with one. She also had a habit of gardening. Our home had a rather large pumpkin patch. Biggest in the neighborhood.”

“Was it the only one in the neighborhood?” you ask, holding back a laugh.

“Yes, actually, it was. Pumpkins always seemed to go missing though. We always thought that there were people who were just jealous of our achievement, and wanted the fruits of our labor for themselves!” There’s a loud sipping noise as he drinks his coffee.

Your lips twitch. Roxy, as drunk as she usually was, had a genius mind, and had been developing a transporting device for years. She said she was using one of Jane’s cousin’s gardens as a test subject. She had told you that pumpkins were the perfect size. If it worked out alright, she would give the pumpkins to Jane, who would intern use them for some baking material. They would then send the product to shelters for the less fortunate.

You decide you better leave that piece of information unshared. “That’s a shame,” you say instead, and take a sip of your own coffee.

The table shifts as he stands, and he grunts in agreement. “Most certainly a shame. We liked our pumpkins. Used them for all sorts of things.” There’s a pop and a crack and then he yawns. “Well, do you mind if I start moving my things into a room? Not to rush you, Dirk, but I do want to get everything out of the truck as soon as possible. They charge by the hour.”

“No problem,” you say, standing. “I’ll help out.”

“Oh, no no no!” he says hurriedly. “That won’t be necessary!”

You shift so you face his general direction and give him a look that you hope appears exasperated. “I may be blind, English, but I can carry shit if I want to.”

“Well, yes,” he says, his voice quieting, “however, can you maneuver the lobby and carry things at the same time?”

“Sure,” you lie, “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

== >

You look behind you again to make sure he’s still there and he hasn’t fallen. He’s definitely still there, walking as confidently as ever. His mouth is set in a stoic line, his hand gripping his cane loosely, shoulders slumped. His footsteps barely register in your ears.

You’ve hardly been here an hour and you’re already frustrated beyond belief with this Dirk Strider.

He insisted that you go out the apartment door first, and that you go down the stairs first, and that you, _the bodyguard_ , walk out the front door _first_. You tried to put your foot down about the stairs, but he wouldn’t have it.

“However will you catch me if you’re behind me?” he said, “I need my handsome knight to save me.”

He had a point there, no matter how condescendingly he put it. So you went with it, allowing him to trail behind you down the stairs. His pace was steady, like he wasn’t even impaired, but you attributed that to having climbed it so very often. After all, it wasn’t hard to become accustomed to things.

When you reached the end of the stairs, you waited for him by the elevator to go down to the very bottom. You both sat in silence as it took the two of you downward. You were tense, but he remained calm and relaxed. You wondered vaguely if he had a care in the world. You wondered if he even noticed your presence.

You’re down to the first level now, and you insist that he goes first this time. He remains silent and stares at you through his glasses before you throw up your hands in exasperation and mutter a few things and carry on. You walk across the lobby with long strides, and are surprised to find he keeps up with you easily.

“Hey, Matrice,” he says in a friendly voice to the lady behind the desk.

“Hello, Dirk,” she says, and her dour face brightens. Oh, you are definitely going to strangle him!

You continue on out to the front, holding the door open for him. He takes a deep breath, like hasn’t smelled the city air in a long time, before he asks which way the truck is. You start to point, but then say, “To the right,” and continue on to open the door on the back of it. He follows, stopping at a comfortable distance and waits, motionless. You ponder what on Earth he could be thinking. You base most of your observations on sight alone, and you wonder how the devil the bloke does without it. You are more than capable of using your other senses, but in general you don’t.

He slings his cane onto his arm with the little strap at the end and holds his hands out expectantly. Gingerly, you pick up a box that contains pictures and other relics of your past. You hand it to him, saying, “There’s just a bunch of pictures in here. Shouldn’t be too hard to take back up. Just be careful, I don’t want anything ruined.”

“Sure thing,” he says, and he turns to leave.

“You’re certain you can manage without your cane?” you ask.

“Sure,” he says again, and he begins to walk for the door. He walks slowly, cautiously, and you watch, fuming silently. You don’t even understand why he hired you now. He seems more than capable of--

He’s fallen on his face.

You resist the snort of triumph building in you, and run to help him up. You grasp his hand and heft him upward. His hands are surprising soft, something you wouldn’t expect of him. You keep holding his hand despite yourself. “All right there, mate?” you say, holding back a grin.

He looks up at you from behind his glasses, slightly askew. You catch a flash of orange before he quickly adjusts them, his face reddening. He nods, clearing his throat and abstractedly brushing himself off with his other hand. “Yeah, man. I don’t even know where that lady came from.”

You decide not to argue with him about the existence of the lady. You think it best to leave some fraction of his pride intact. You get the impression that Dirk Strider is a proud man. “She certainly didn’t give any warning, did she?” You play along, your smile widening.

He’s silent for a moment, his thumb rubbing circles in your palm. It tickles, but the sensation soothes you. The moment is oddly intimate, and you let out pent up air you didn’t even know you were holding. 

“Yeah,” he says finally in a soft voice, “Sure didn’t.”

“Any bruises? Blood?” you ask, and he shakes his head, withdrawing his hand. The absence of warmth surprises you, and you hurriedly stuff your hands into your pockets. You feel your cheeks warm, and you are undeniably glad in this moment that he is blind. “Certain you’re all right, there, Strider?” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice flat again. “Don’t you have a room to unpack?” He turns back for the truck, unslinging his cane from his arm. He walks confidently again, his cane swinging back and forth lazily.

You watch him go, frowning, and wondering if you’re ever going to figure out this man.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again im sorry i dont update more often its partially because im a lazy ass fuck and also because im a lazy ass fuck  
> remember if you guys have any questions my tumblr is http://yourparabatai.tumblr.com/  
> feel free to comment  
> thanks again guys!!

You spend the rest of the day moving your stuff in. He was still insistent upon helping, but in a more passive aggressive manner. For example, you watched with horror as he knocked his cane around until he found something he could pick up, and then he would promptly disappear inside the building with it. You, of course, trailed behind, panicky and with more than a few protests. Which, to your dismay, he ignored with cold silence. In the end, you did manage to get everything up there undamaged. Relatively. Your collection of movie posters had a few bent sheets here and there, but you were willing to ignore that.

You survey your new room now, tired, but pleased. It had turned out alright. Everything’s in its proper place, and it doesn’t look too cluttered. Well, your movie collection does need to be straightened up a bit, but you can get to that later! For now, you think it best to discuss the finer points of your job with Dirk. He seems to agree with your thoughts because he knocks his cane against your leg, and jerks his head towards the kitchen.

You both sit at the table, and he pulls out his phone, deftly scrolling through it with his thumb. The disembodied voice from earlier (Hal you think his name is?) tells him where to stop. Eventually, it gets frustrated and tells Dirk to just plain old stop touching it and let someone who can see do the work. Dirk grimaces, and removes his thumb from the screen. Finally, he puts it on the table and slides the device across to you. “So, despite my reclusiveness, I have a schedule of things to do, particularly within the next month,” he says.

You squint, readjusting your glasses and reading the small text on the screen. You notice one event in particular is highlighted in bright orange. _“Appearance with Bro.”_ Vaguely, you wonder what sort of appearance he means. “I’m just showing you now so you have a vague idea of the next week at least,” he continues, and you look back up from the bright screen to him. “I’ll get you a phone or a pager or some shit that’ll allow you to have the schedule officially.”

“You could just email me,” you say, sliding the phone back over.

He’s picking at a chip on the table with his fingers, ignoring the phone. Or perhaps just not noticing it? You glance down at the table and notice there are a lot of chips in the table. In fact, the table is covered in dents and chips and stains. You peer closer for further inspection, but Dirk shakes his head, demanding your attention. You snap your eyes back up to his face as he says, “Yeah, that would be a lot cheaper, but in the long run, I think if you had a phone from me it would be a lot more productive. You could have Hal with you at all times--”

“Excellent," Hal cuts in.

“--and that way you could be pretty much aware of my state at all times.” He pauses, thinking. You watch, fascinated as he bites his lower lip in thought. You don’t know why you’re noticing this now, but his lips are pretty darned full. You think that whoever’s lucky enough to kiss those lips is going to have a devil of time with them. With a pop, he releases it, making you jump a little, and goes on to say, “What kind of phone do you have? I could probably just mess with it a bit and install Hal.”

You sheepishly produce your old flip phone from your shorts’ pocket and slide it across the table. He picks it up, running his hands along it and opening it. His lips twitch, cheek turning upward for the briefest of seconds, before he puts it back down on the table. “That,” he says, “is pretty pathetic. Time for a new phone, English.”

You snatch the phone back from him, tucking it into your pocket once more. “It’s functional! Does everything I want it to and then some.” Admittedly, you’d been dying for a new phone, but you didn’t have the money or the will to get one. You like looking at the phones in the windows of stores, even going in and fiddling with the touch screens and the fancy new features, but you are frugal through and through.

“It’s pretty basic, English,” he says. “I’m not one to flippantly spend money, but you are in dire need of a new phone. How long have you had that?”

You bashfully admit to six years. He almost seems to choke on a laugh before insisting further that there is no way you’re not getting a new phone. Your insides squirm uncomfortably as you argue back. You’re not sure you’re even capable of accepting such a gift! You’ve barely been employed a day. Granted, you don’t think you could accept something like this seven years in, but that’s besides the point. The point being that your phone was perfectly capable of calls and texts and therefore functional. It was completely unnecessary for a new phone.

You spend the next twenty minutes arguing over phones before you finally give in, slumping in your chair in defeat while he leans back, crossing his arms with a satisfied smirk. “You’re a damned stubborn bastard,” you say. You neglect to mention you’re pretty weak in terms of arguing.

“That’s no way to talk to your employer,” says Hal from the speaker. You send a glare his way, hoping for some form of intimidation. He only snickers, starting to say something else when Dirk intervenes.

“Shut the actual hell up,” he says, and he stands, shuffling over to the kitchen cabinets and feeling around the cupboard. His hands slide over the wood of the shelves, bumping into packages and boxes, but never settling on one thing. You realize this is your opportunity to put your employment to use. You didn’t want to be the slacker with this job, now did you? “I’ll get it!” you say, standing.

“I got it,” he replies, and continues feeling around.

“What do you want, Strider? I’ve got it, really,” you insist, coming forward.

“I’m just looking for the ramen, that’s all.”

You watch his hand feel around for a moment longer, missing the packages of ramen each and every time. It astounds you that he can miss so many times. Surely he knew they were right there? He’d put his kitchen together hadn’t he?

You shrug your thoughts off. Regardless of whether he put his kitchen together or not, he’s not going to get the ramen any time soon. Perhaps this is a test? You rush forward eagerly, standing behind him and reaching for the packages. He’s a tad bit taller than you, so you end up leaning against him, but you don’t particularly mind. 

The package crinkles loudly in your hands as you grab the one on top of the stack. “Gotcha!” you say, and victoriously take his hand in your own, plopping the package there.

== >

You stand there, stiff, the cold plastic in your hand barely registering in your mind. All you can feel is his chest against yours, warm and unmoving. The sensation of his hand on yours refuses to go away and you’re left there, practically incapacitated by just being this close. You can smell his deodorant at this level of closeness. It smells kind of like baby powder, actually. What does he use, women’s Dove?

“Thanks,” you finally manage, closing your hand around the package.

“Quite welcome!” he replies, and then there’s a pause. “Oh, I probably ought to cook it, eh?”

You shrug, trying to regain your composure. It’s hard though because as soon as he’s gone your back is freezing. How does someone even radiate that much heat? Good Christ you’d love to know. You turn and toss the package in his general direction, and you assume he catches because there’s the satisfying _crackle-plop_ of the ramen landing on something soft.

“Go ahead and sit back down, Strider! This thing’ll be whipped up in a jiffy,” he says, and he brushes past you again towards the oven on your right. The brief contact sends a curious sensation down your spine. It’s not something you haven’t experienced before, but there’s a different charge to it. You make your way back to the table, sitting down in the hard, wooden chair and resuming your habit of picking at the faults. Your back still tingles from the contact.

He starts to hum while he works. It’s tuneless, and actually pretty fucking bad, but you don’t comment. It’s kind of… endearing? Yeah, that seems like a fit way to describe it.

God, if only he knew just how gay you actually were.

You admit that you were somewhat hoping for him to come behind you, brush against you like that, and grab the ramen. You had known exactly where the packages were, but you wanted to test him, see if he was up to the job. Granted, you’d already tested him on multiple occasions today, but one more couldn’t hurt.

Dirk Strider wasn’t helpless, despite what everyone thought. You could live on your own if you really wanted to. However, you’d have to give up a few of the finer comforts of living. Like using the stove and oven, for example. Microwaving you could totally do, but despite the fact that you can be a lazy ass sometimes, there are days that you do want something made from scratch.

You tend to call Jane for that, but she can’t always be there. Not to mention it’s a stab to your pride for every time you have to call Roxy or Jane for help. It’s better than having to hire a bodyguard/caretaker. You silently curse your brother, hate welling up inside you.

There’s a clink as a bowl is placed in front of you, jarring you from your thoughts. Your hatred dissipates as the smell of ramen hits your nose. “There!” Jake says, scooting the chair across from you out with a loud scrape. You feel the vibration across the table as he sits, and there’s another bowl clink. Did he make some for himself, too? There’s a slurp. Yeah, he definitely did. You brush your fingers around, finding a fork to the right of the bowl, begin to eat yourself.

“So,” he says after a few minutes, pausing in his slurping, “first things first.” You raise a brow, but remain silent, continuing to eat. “This apartment is in dire need of a trip to the grocery store,” he continues, “Those cupboards are basically Mother Hubbard’s cupboards!”

“It’s enough to last for a while,” you reply, and you take another bite.

“I s’pose if you want to eat expired food for the next two months,” he says, and there’s the clink of his utensil hitting the bowl. Finished already?

“Oops,” you say, feigning innocence.

“Oops is gosh-darned right!” he says, “So tomorrow I think we should go shopping!”

“Alright.” You take another bite.

There’s an awkward silence. You continue to eat, waiting for him to say something else. “Well, uh,” he begins finally, “what’s the budget?”

You shrug, twirling your fork around the bowl, searching for any remnants. “I don’t care. Whatever’s necessary.”

“Alright,” he says slowly, “Do you want to make a list?”

“Sure.” You decide there’s nothing left in the bowl and let your fork drop. It lands with a clang that has your ears ringing. You’re getting another one of your headaches. You don’t think you can handle much more for the day. You were already exhausted just from being out of the house, you were still reeling from seeing your brother, and suddenly the prospect of Jake’s presence in your life 24/7 has hit you sideways. “I’ll make it tomorrow morning,” you say. “Right now, I’m going to bed.”

“Oh…” he says, voice somewhat hurt, “Right o. Need anything else from me?”

You shake your head, pushing the guilt down. “I’m good. Thanks for making the ramen.” You head into your room without waiting for a response, collapsing back into your bed.

“That was smooth,” Hal says from his corner.

“Shut the fuck up,” you mumble into the pillow.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ones a bit short i apologize  
> theres longer ones coming now that i have a definitive plotline  
> (ive been writing this as i go but i finally mapped out my plot almost completely uou i just need a nice ending)  
> please please please if you have any questions my ask on tumblr is always open!! i will most definitely see your question there and i will definitely answer.  
> anyway, enjoy

You wake up to Jake English making breakfast again. He’s louder this time, the clangs of pots and pans reaching your ears and effectively bringing you back to the land of the conscious. You groan, curling your knees under your body and sliding your torso upwards until you’re in a sitting position. You sit there for a moment, letting the last moments of sleep wash off you before you clumsily get out of bed. You trip over your cane, but you right yourself before you manage to collide with the floor.

“Alright in there, Dirk?” Jake shouts.

You think you mumble something, but whatever it is, it’s incomprehensible even to yourself.

“What?” he shouts back, and you groan, grabbing your shades and shoving them on your face and then proceed to grab your cane, too. Gradually, you make it out to the kitchen, where you get a blast of heat to the face while the sound of something sizzling and a fan whirring invades your ears.

“What are you even doing?” you ask above the noise, slumping into your chair.

“Pancakes!” he shouts back, followed by a loud slap.

“Pancakes,” you repeat, lying your head on the table. The obnoxious sounds of his cooking are oddly lulling, and eventually they have you dozing off into sleep once more. You start to dream something about Jake taking you into some wild jungle. You can’t make out his face though, only the fuzzy outline of his body. You hopelessly follow after him, trying to catch up with his blurred form. In the end, you’re woken up by a clang of plates on the table. You jump, your heart pounding, and the distinct sound of Jake’s laughter hits your ears. It’s the first time you’ve heard him really laugh. It’s loud and resounding, deep and whole-hearted. You immediately decide that you like it.

“That’s quite the get-up there, Strider!” he says, and the table vibrates as he slaps his palm onto the surface.

“What?” you say, frowning, still groggy. You’re wearing what you usually are, aren’t you? T-shirt, jeans, belt, shades… You mentally go through your checklist. All there. So what’s his damage?

“Your hair is sticking up at worse angles than mine does when I’ve first woken up! Cripes, you look nearly like my great-uncle!” He starts laughing again, sliding a plate towards you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, which is truthful. You can’t see, so how could you know you’ve got bedhead?

There’s suddenly warm hands coursing through your hair and you stiffen up. “Uh…”

“Let me fix this mess,” he murmurs, and you hold still while his hands shape your hair. You wait for the frustration because he doesn’t have the hair gel, and eventually his hands get rougher, scratching at your scalp and tugging at locks of hair, trying to get them to stand up. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little bit turned on. You keep quiet though, not saying a word as he tries his damnedest.

At last he gives up, slapping his hands downward and declaring your hair to be an enigma. You hold up one hand and go to your room, feeling around for the cool bottle of hair gel you keep on your nightstand. When you return, you hold it up and he curses loudly before swiping it out of your hands.

His hands are back on your head again, cold this time with the gel, and you feel your hair slowly going back to the shape you keep it in. You’re kind of surprised that he knows what he’s doing. He’s gentle, slowly coaxing your hair to exactly the way you want it. You find yourself leaning into his touch, actually enjoying it. Under normal circumstances, you’d have jerked away from his first initial contact. Fuck if it was awkward afterward, you just don’t like people touching you. But something about Jake English makes you feel comfortable, and you let the contact slide.

Your mind shoots to him touching other areas of your body almost immediately.

No. _Fuck no._ This guy is your bodyguard, not your personal fuck buddy. You take a deep breath, trying to stifle the oncoming arousal. As much as you’d like to have a sloppy make-out session with this guy, it’s not professional. Not to mention the fact that Jake English is probably the straightest guy you’ve ever met. Straight as a fuckin’ rod.

But as quickly as he’d started, he’s finished, and he’s washing his hands in the sink. “There. Perfection,” he says.

Your murmur your thanks and go back to eating your breakfast. He sits across from you, the chair scraping against the floor as he does, and there’s the clink of silverware against dishes as he eats his own meal.

You mildly wonder how you can get so turned on for a dude you can’t even see.

== >

After breakfast, you help Dirk into your Jeep, assisting him climb up and buckle in. He swats at your hands a few times, grumbling that he’s a full grown man and he can buckle his own goddamn self. You wait patiently before he asks “where the actual fuck is the seat belt even” and then you proceed to help him find it. He seems grumpy at having to accept the aid of your eyes, but you try to dissipate his bad mood by talking.

“So how the devil did you learn to fight like that?” you ask, climbing into the other side, and starting the vehicle.

“Personal training,” he says shortly.

“Oh?” you say, pressing further. You pull out of the parking lot and merge yourself into the city traffic. Cripes, is it always this busy?

“Yeah.”

“Well, not to be rude, but how do you do it? I mean I’m not sure I could even pop a good punch if I couldn’t see.” You glance over at him. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed, staring blankly out the window. A wave of pity rushes through you, and you wonder if he ever got to see San Francisco in all of its chaotic beauty. And if he had, did he miss it?

“My training was special,” he replies, “My bro hired this world-famous, blind police officer to teach me how to defend myself.” He pauses, turning his head to face forward. “Despite that, I still seem to need a bodyguard to take care of me.” His voice is filled with resentment, and you wince, glad that he can’t see your face.

“Well, precautions aren’t always a bad thing,” you say slowly. He shrugs noncommittally, turning to once more face the window. “I’m sure he’s got your best interests in mind,” you go on. “You’re his brother, after all.”

“He’s too busy to give a shit,” he says acidly. “The only reason he helps me at all is to keep his image up. If the media didn’t know about my existence, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck about what happened to me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” you say, but you keep your eyes on the road and away from him. You know he can’t see you, but you don’t want to see his face. Yet, you find yourself glancing over, expecting to see his face contorted in anger, abandonment, something. But his features are passive in the window’s reflection, betraying not even an ounce of a emotion. He doesn’t respond further.

You spend the rest of the ride in silence. When you pull into the Walmart parking lot, he’s out of the car before you have the chance to help him. You scurry out, rushing towards his already moving form. You reach him just in time, jerking him out of the way of a car trying to get by. He thumps against your chest, grunting, as the car drives by. The driver honks, but doesn’t stop, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Gee, English,” Dirk says against your chest, “I didn’t know you felt this way about me.”

You feel your cheeks heat and you step back. “You ought to be more careful, you nitwit!” you reply huffily. “If this were in the city streets you could have very well died!” He only smiles, lips curving upward with mischievous delight. You mutter under your breath that you ought to go into the store lest that driver comes to give you a good talking-to.

He bows, gesturing in the direction of a restaurant. “After you,” he says. You snatch his hand, and direct it in the right direction, before dragging him into the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grocery store shenanigans to ensue


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know pretty weird that i updated so quickly

You end up in the soft drink aisle first at his insistence. There, he instructs you to pick up three two-liter bottles of Fanta and a twelve pack of Crush cans. You place them in the cart, the pack of cans sending a resounding clang outward, and he nods in approval. Next, he directs you to the aisle with the chips, where he proceeds to list off five different flavors of Doritos. He asks you to pick up two extra of the Nacho Cheese and one of Cool Ranch, however, whereas the rest you pick up one of each. You pick them all up, placing them delicately in the cart so as not to crush them and shifting the bottles of fizzing liquid out of the way.

He then leads you to the candy aisle, and it’s then that you realize he’s probably been here before if he knows where he’s going without having to ask you for assistance. You watch as he steps precisely, as if he’s counting the number of steps between aisles. He’s definitely been here before, you decide.

You pick up sugared orange slices and Dr. Pepper jelly beans there for him. The thought of jelly beans that taste like a soft drink makes your stomach churn. It probably tasted dreadful. You ask what’s next before you can dwell on the thought much longer, and he shrugs. “These are the essentials of any good Strider household. I’ll leave the other stuff to you.”

You snort. How does he stay so fit if all he eats is this rubbish? You try to keep on a healthy diet, although you do indulge yourself in a pint of Pumpkin Cheesecake ice cream on multiple occasions during the holidays. “What about Instant Ramen?” you tease, and he snaps his fingers.

“Shit, that’s right,” he says, and you follow after him as he counts the number of steps between the aisles. He stops at an end cap, about to turn, and you hurriedly push him gently onward.

“One more step there, chap!” you say, and he takes another. “Miscalculated there, it would seem.”

He shrugs. “Whoops,” is all he says before he tells you the exact flavor that he wants. You pick up mostly the chicken, but he has you place three of the shrimp into the cart. You wrinkle your nose at the thought of the shrimp in ramen, but neglect to comment.

After that, it’s your turn. You immediately make for the produce, picking out your favorite vegetables and placing them in the thin plastic bags. You tell him everything you’re picking up so that he has the opportunity tell you no should he so desire. It is his money after all, and you have no desire to take things he wouldn’t want either. He lets you pick up almost everything at your assurance that you will be using all of these most definitely, and they won’t be left to rot in the refrigerator. The one thing he denies you is some asparagus, and you frown.

“Are you allergic?” you ask. You don’t think you’d ever heard of that allergy before.

“No,” he says, “but it makes your piss smell nasty.” You splurt out a laugh, and he smiles with you. “I’m not joking, and the smell lasts for fuckin’ hours. It’s worse than when-you-wake-up-in-the-morning-urine.”

You’d never noticed before, but you place the offending vegetable back in the basket, still laughing. “I’ll trust your judgement, mate,” you reply.

You make your way over to fruit, and there he says he’d like to make a few of his own choices. You jokingly hand him an orange, which he takes from you when you vocalize that you’ve got a present for him. He puts it to his nose, and his lips curl upwards again. “Thanks,” he says, “How did you know this was what I’d always wanted? Who could ever guess that I have a thing for oranges.”

“I haven’t a clue,” you play along, and hand him a few more, which he dumps unceremoniously into the cart. “Careful!” you exclaim as they land on the chips. “They’re going to crush your Doritos!”

He only shrugs. “I like the Nacho ones crushed more, to be honest.” You snort, but for the rest of the fruit, you place them gently in the cart yourself. This leaves him to do his own exploring. He feels around the baskets, despite your protests that you can’t just feel every fruit and not buy it afterward. He doesn’t listen, instead moving from the peaches to the bananas. It doesn’t seem like he knows what they are at first, his hands running up and down their length, and in such a way that it has you blushing.

You jerk your gaze from his hands to his face, trying to see if he’s doing it on purpose. His lips are turned downward, his brow furrowed. Is he really trying to figure out what they are? You can’t imagine what else they could possibly be. “They’re bananas,” you say, trying to keep how flustered you are out of your voice. It doesn’t work, and a grin slips across his face.

“Thanks,” he says, and he places two bunches into the cart.

You move on to the cantaloupe, smelling the ends to see if they’re ripe. Your grandmother had taught you that trick. If they smelled like grass, you shouldn’t pick them up, but if they were sweet smelling, they were ripe and ready to eat. Most of them smell like grass, so you ask Dirk to help you find a ripe one. He picks one up slowly, moving his hands around the melon until he finds the ends. He wrinkles his nose in disgust upon smelling it, and says, “Smells like a front lawn,” and then moves on to the next one.

“Do you want to hear a story about cantaloupes?” you ask, pausing in your quest for the perfect one. The old story your grandmother had told you years ago pops into your head, making you smile. You want to share.

He shrugs, sniffing another one. “Sure.”

“Once there were two lovers,” you say, and he raises one brow questioningly. “Oh, shut up!” You wave your hand at him, forgetting briefly he can’t see it. “It’s not mushy, I swear. It’s damned funny, actually.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he says innocently, and raises another melon to his nose.

You snort. “You were certainly thinking something.”

“You don’t know that. I don’t recall mind-reading being in your resume, English.”

“ _Anyway,_ ” you go on, ignoring his last comment, “there were once two lovers. They would meet in the same patch of melons every day to see each other. But their parents did not approve of their choice of loved ones, and forbid them to see each other. When they tried to meet one last time, their parents trapped them in their homes for the rest of their lives. The people began to call the melons in the patch cantaloupes because,” you grin widely as you say this last part, “they couldn’t elope.”

He snorts, an undignified sound coming from him, but it makes you laugh as you pick up another melon. “That was the dumbest story I’ve ever heard,” he says, but he’s got a small smile on his lips as he says so.

“Thanks,” you reply, grinning, and put a melon in the cart. It’s the only perfect one out the whole bunch.

== >

You’ve decided you’re going to seduce Jake English. A daunting task, nigh on unforgivable, but you’re going to undertake it with the utmost enthusiasm that you can muster. You know for a fact you’re not in love with him yet, but you know you wouldn’t mind a relationship with this guy, nor a good bout of sex with him. The concept of true love makes you snort, but you’re confident that you can find mutual affection with someone else. You’ve decided on Jake English in all his dork-ridden glory.

You’d only known him for a few days, but he’s already captured your attention. You think it might be because of that accidental brush with his ass when you’d tested his skills, but if you were being honest with yourself, you felt comfortable with him. More comfortable with anyone you’d ever spent time with before, including Roxy. Dave, when you and he had still gotten along, used to give you that level of comfort, but when he stopped caring, so had you. You don’t think you’re ever going to get a brotherly relationship back with him again. 

But you can have something with Jake. You want him to feel comfortable with you, too, and you want to share things with him. You have no intention of forming a brotherly relationship with him, though, and this is in no way a replacement of what your relationship with Dave should be. You fully intend to take this relationship beyond brotherly companionship and to the bedroom.

You listen as he babbles about something he heard about watermelons as he sorts through them, and the urge to smile is almost irresistible.

Almost.

But you’re Dirk Strider, and it’s not often you let yourself smile so easily. It’s not often you have something to smile about, anyway. The only one who can really puncture your stony mask is Roxy, and that’s only because she grew up with you. Dave can too, but not in a way that anyone likes. Whenever you talk to Dave, your temper flares and you often end your visits with each other in screaming matches and slammed doors. You’re surprised your last visit went as smoothly as it did.

Your mind wanders to the upcoming movie premier in Hollywood. You have no desire to go, no desire to hear about yourself on the television later, no desire to even be within Dave’s presence. You hate listening to the pity party the reporters throw for you. You hate listening to the goddamn newswomen comment on how it’s too bad you’re blind or you’d be Hollywood’s bachelor for sure.

Just because you’re blind doesn’t mean you’re not a person. You’re still human. Your face isn’t deformed. Your eyes don’t even look that bad. They’re just not like they used to be. The criminals that had done this to you had made sure only to blind you. They hadn’t damaged much else, or so the doctors had said. You’d blacked out.

Your hand drifts up to touch your face thoughtfully. It feels the same, you think, as it had before you’d been blinded. But you can’t be sure. You hadn’t worried about what your face felt like when you’d been able to see. And it had been years since the last time you’d seen your face. You’d finished puberty in the time since. Had you turned out to be hideous? You’d been a pretty decent looking teen, you think. Not drop dead, but enough that people gave you a second glance.

Or was that because you’re Dave Strider’s younger brother?

You place your hand back down at your side, mentally slapping yourself. You know you’re being illogical, but the fear still rests inside your chest. You worry that perhaps you’re not attractive enough that Jake will never even consider it. You know your blindness certainly doesn’t help your chances of ever even kissing him.

Sighing, you shake these thoughts off. You’ll just have to convince him through your charming personality.

“Right, Strider!” he says, “Time for the basics now!”

“The basics?” you say. Hadn’t he already filled up the cart to the brim? These weren’t the basics?

“We need bread, eggs, cheese, milk, and I think perhaps some meat. Granted, I don’t particularly want to get the meat they have here. Last time I had meat from this place, my stomach had a fit later that night. So I s’pose we can go ahead and pick that up later.”

“It’s up to you,” you reply, shrugging. “Just remember we need to pick up your phone, too.”

There’s a silence from him, and when he speaks at last he sounds incredibly flustered. “Really, Strider, a new phone is not necessary.” You smirk, thinking of your brilliant little charade with the bananas. You’d known exactly what they were, but you wanted to test his reaction. He’d gotten pretty uncomfortable. For what reason, you’re not sure. Had he been questioning himself there, or had it made him disgusted? If only you could see his expression.

You decide you require further research into the matter.

“We had this argument last night,” you say, “and we both agreed your old flip phone was actually a piece of shit.”

“We never said anything of the sort!” he exclaims.

“It was implied.” You move your cane in his direction, successfully thwacking his leg. He yelps, and shoves your cane away. “We’re getting you a new phone.” He mumbles something, but you know you’ve won. “That’s what I thought,” you say. “Now, what was that about milk and eggs?”

“And bread,” he adds. “It’s over this way.” He grabs your hand, rough palms warm on your own. You curl your fingers around his and hold on tightly. Not too tightly that it seems that you’re clinging to him, but tightly enough that he’d be hard-pressed to let go.

“What kind of bread do you want?” he asks as he starts walking. The wheels on the cart click as they rotate, and you guess he’s somehow managing to steer while he guides you along. You shrug, continuing to walk and trying not to trip at his breakneck pace. “Well there’s wheat and white and then there’s the fresh baked bread…” He goes off on a list and you just shrug again. He ends up picking up one loaf of wheat and another of white.

“Won’t we need condiments for the bread?” you say as he drags you off to the milk.

“Oh, no we’re actually quite stocked up on peanut butter and jam. I took the liberty of scoping out your cupboards, Strider. You’re not so bereft as you might have thought! Unfortunately, I did have to get rid of more than a few things, seeing as they were expired, but that’s quite alright. I’m surprised Janey didn’t get rid of them sooner, though… She’s usually so on top of that.”

“She doesn’t often go into my kitchen and use the materials I have,” you say. “Generally, she brings things from her place. Roxy’s the one that cooks with my stuff.” And not all that well, either. You now have a pretty good idea why.

“Well, not to worry! There won’t be any more expired canned mushrooms or olives in the cupboards any longer!” he replies.

“The olives are probably for her martinis,” you say, grimacing.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, and then says, “Do you suppose we ought to pick some wine or liquor up for her?”

You shake your head. “I’m not going to fuel her addiction. She drinks too much. Her liver’s probably half way out.”

“Goodness. Should I refrain from bringing alcohol then?” His voice is frank with pity.

“You can bring beer if you want. She won’t touch that no matter how sober she becomes.”

“Right-o!” You come to an abrupt halt amidst the hum of the refrigerated food. There’s the sound of a door opening and the hum becomes a low roar before it’s cut off again. “I’m buying whole milk if that’s alright with you. The fat free and one percent are watery and there’s no point in drinking less than half of what something actually is.”

“I concur,” you say, and there’s a few clangs as he places however many gallons he bought in the cart. You marvel that there’s still room to fit them among all the other junk you’ve place in there.

“And finally eggs and cheese!” The hum becomes a roar once more as he opens a door, and takes them out. It stays open for a moment longer than before, and he says a little more loudly than before, “Do you care what kind of eggs I purchase?” You shake your head.

Finally, he takes you to the check-out line, the beeps and boops that had been distantly echoing throughout the store now resounding in your ears drums. Together, you stand and wait for the lines to clear up. It takes longer than you would’ve liked, and by the time it’s your turn, you can feel a headache forming. You wonder if Jake senses your distress, because you listen to him hurrying to get everything on the conveyor belt and back into the cart. You swipe your card through the machine, and Jake guides your hand to where they want your signature, and then you’re done.

You’d finished in less than ten minutes and are heading back to the car. The cool air hits your face as you step out of the store, and you take a deep breath. You wonder if it’s foggy out because it’s so cool. You try to bring up a memory of the city fog, but none comes forward.

Jake unloads the cart while you try to figure out how to get into his car on your own. The cool metal sends chills up your fingertips as you try to find a handle. You manage to find the gas tank, and hurriedly close the little door before you find the handle for the door to the passenger seat. You tug it open and do your best to climb inside in a dignified manner. You think it works out pretty well but Jake is giggling when he climbs in the other side and assists you in buckling yourself.

“Right, time for home!” he exclaims.

You make the most anime noise you have ever made. “Tch,” you say, “and what about your phone?”

He laughs nervously. “Damn, I’d hoped you’d have forgotten.”

“We were literally talking about this twenty minutes ago.” You lean back in your seat as he sighs.

“Yes, yes alright. What carrier do you have?”

“Verizon,” you reply.

“Onward then,” he says reluctantly, and starts the car. He parks again in less than ten minutes, and hops out, helping you out of your own seat. You both enter the stuffy store, and the hushed conversations of the clerks and their customers walk over you. You like this only marginally better than the noise ridden Walmart.

A clerk steps up to help you right away and you don’t really listen until Jake nudges you and asks what kind of phone he should get. You name one right off the bat, and the clerk takes a new phone out for Jake to mess around with while he adds him to your plan and explains to you the cost and how the data now works, etcetera etcetera.

You nod your way through the whole process, giving the necessary information before you’re both ready to go. You’re on your way out, Jake ahead of you, when the door slams in your face. You push the door open, and call, “Hey, English, don’t get so caught up in the new phone you forget your job!”

You feel his arm link with yours as he sheepishly apologizes. He gently guides you back to his car, his arm warm and firm against your own. “It’s just… so fantastic,” he breathes. “And it’s mine.”

“Congrats,” you say, “Your phone is no longer a piece of shit.”

He doesn’t even bother protesting this time, patting your arm and babbling about something he’d already discovered.


	9. Chapter 9

TG: hey di-stri long tiem no talk ;)  
TT: Hey, Rolal.  
TT: ‘Sup?  
TG: i hanve t seen u iin so long :(  
TG: can i come over 2day?  
TG: for dinner or somethin  
TG: mmet this jake englihs officialy  
TG: *english  
TT: Sure.  
TT: Just don’t fondle his ass.  
TT: That choice booty is mine.  
TG: is this lil hal or is this strider  
TG: cuz somehow i feel that dirky wouldnt mention jakes butt yet  
TG: (yet)  
TG: but i bet it is HAWT  
TG: wonks  
TG: ;) ;) ;)  
TT: A combination of both of us.  
TT: (It totally is.)  
TG: i cant remembe rhow that evne works  
TG: *remember  
TG: hows it both a u again??  
TT: Well, technically, it’s Hal speaking at the moment. Dirk is, however, telling me precisely how to respond. He’s a bit busy right now and seems to have forgotten his phone has voice recognition.  
TT: Oh, wait. No, apparently he’s getting sick of the mistakes and having to speak incredibly precisely in order for it to recognize what the hell he’s saying.  
TG: ok well does this mena hes still ok with me comin over or  
TT: Yeah, he’s down.  
TG: sweeeet  
TG: will totes be there at 7 oclock on the DOT!!!  
TT: See you then.

== >

You slap the magazine into the rubbish bin, a frustrated sigh escaping you. This was the seventh time that you’d come across a gay porn magazine lying casually around the house. The first time you’d come across it, you’d blushed furiously, but hadn’t commented, deciding that it wasn’t your business to comment on what your employer was doing in his free time. After the third one, however, you’d come to the startling realization that _Dirk can’t even bloody see._

“That’s hot,” your phone chirps from your pocket.

You snort, flicking its hard surface from beneath the fabric. “You can’t even see it from my pocket, Hal.”

“True enough,” he replies, “But I know goddamn well it’s hot.”

You don’t respond. Yes, you acknowledge that those fellows are damned well attractive. You wouldn’t mind having a good go with them, but cripes you didn’t need to see willie winkies that were anything but wee around the house. It just wasn’t right to have such images lying around for anyone to see. What if you had guests over?! You’ve had it almost up to here with those damned magazines.

It had been about a month since you’d started working for Dirk Strider. You enjoyed it, really, but you were starting to get a little ticked off about the magazines. You knew they were a ploy to bait you, but you wouldn’t stand for it! You’d come to learn that Dirk enjoyed playing mind games, and you were more than often the brunt of them. You’d walked in from getting the mail on the first floor and into a pile of puppets with obnoxiously large rumps and all too long noses.

After much spluttering, you’d had him help you clean up, which he’d done with a smug little smirk on his mouth. You’d been tempted to whack the smile off his face with one of those puppets, but at that point, you were still uncomfortable with doing much of anything that involved horseplay with Dirk.

You were still uncomfortable until about a week ago when you’d walked out of your bedroom one morning to have him on you in less than a second. He’d had you on the floor, arms pinned behind you and his knee in the small of your back. You’d barely had time to register it was him before he’d said, “Surprise quiz, English. Get out of this so you can save the damsel in distress. Which is probably me.”

“Damsel!” you’d cried. “That’s a load of poppycock, you loon! You’d have him exactly like this!”

“I might be incapacitated at the time,” he’d replied. “Think about it. As a blind man, I could easily injure myself walking down the stairs. There’s no way I could defend myself with a broken leg.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” you’d mumbled against the rough carpet, but nonetheless you’d attempted to get out of his death hold. You’d gotten pretty stinking close, almost pinning him yourself, when he’d taken a great fistful of your arse. You’d been so shocked he’d had you back in the position he’d originally had you in before you could even react.

“No time to be surprised,” he’d said, and then let you go to make breakfast.

From then on you’d decided it was alright to engage in fisticuffs with him, which he seemed more than willing to oblige. He always ended up winning, something that you were still astonished by. How he was capable of being aware of your every move without the use of his eyes was beyond you. You wonder who the devil his teacher could have been.

“Jake!” he shouts now from his bedroom, and you angrily tear your eyes away from the curve of one of the young men’s shoulders, making your way to his room. He’s sitting in his chair, the one that is his. You almost smile, but you’re still kind of annoyed by finding yet another magazine. He spins around as you enter to somewhat face you, but he’s off by about ten degrees. Your mouth finally quirks up. Despite all of his shenanigans, you find him endearing.

“Ten more degrees to the left, mate,” you say, and he kicks off to face you completely, pressing his fingers together in semblance of some character from those Japanese cartoons he had once enjoyed watching. Someone’s father, you think, if you remember correctly. You snicker, and his mouth quirks up and he tells you flatly to get in the damned robot. You laugh more, shaking your head and coming into the room a little further.

His smile grows briefly for a moment before it fades to a grim line. “So, Roxy’s invited herself to dinner tonight.”

“Do you want me to make something particularly special?” You ask, your heart leaping in excitement.

“Sure,” he says, “but that’s not what I need to talk to you about. We’re going to need to hide whatever alcohol is in this place.”

“I don’t actually think we have any…” you murmur, and mentally scan the cupboards. You can’t recall having even seen any alcohol in the apartment. Well, you once had a beer in the refrigerator, but that was for you, and it was long gone. You recall also that Dirk had once said that Roxy wouldn’t touch beer no matter how close to sobering up she was.

“Good. I’m sick of her drinking herself away,” he says, mouth turning downward in a grimace.

“Has she always done this?” you ask, and he shrugs.

“She started drinking when we were in high school. I don’t think she’s been fully sober since.”

“What for?”

He shrugs again, spinning in his chair to once again face the computer. “Similar reasons to why I don’t talk with my brother, I assume.”

You raise your brows. “You and your brother don’t get along? Did you have a falling out?” You know he rarely talked about Dave, avoiding the topic of his elder brother like the plague. But it hadn’t really dawned on you that perhaps he didn’t like his brother.

He laughs. “Something like that.”

You can’t get a word out of him afterward, so you leave for the kitchen, looking through the cupboards for inspiration. You don’t find much of anything that sounds appetizing, and you remain unsure what Roxy would even want to eat. With a sigh, you’re back in Dirk’s room in less than five minutes, tapping his shoulder.

He murmurs something to Hal about stopping some sort of process, and then takes off his headphones to indicate he’s listening. You ask what Roxy likes to eat. His mouth quirks up a little and he says strudel. You can only assume there’s a joke behind that, and you lightly punch his shoulder.

“Come now! Be serious here! I want to make something good, not to mention that strudel’s a dessert! I can’t just serve sweets for dinner!”

“It’s just Roxy. We don’t have to throw a goddamn ball,” he says, lightly rubbing the attacked shoulder.

“I’m not throwing a ball. I’m just making dinner. Something that isn’t ramen,” you say wryly. Despite your insistence upon actual meals, he was persistent in having microwaveable food.

“Neither of us have to work that hard to make dinner and it tastes just as good,” he would say. You would then explain that no, no it didn’t. Had he never had gourmet food, or something made from scratch? He would then reply that despite his semi-fame, he wasn’t going to be a snob and eat “only the best.” You suspect that that’s not the case and it’s merely his laziness getting in the way of a decent meal. Laziness and a small part of his refusal was probably to tick you off.

“Well it’s alright to _indulge_ every once‘n a while, Strider! Cripes, does Janey know what you eat?” You had said desperately once.

“Yeah,” he’d replied with an air of nonchalance. Half the time he wouldn’t even be paying much attention to what you were complaining about. You often had a bone to pick with him about the lifestyle he was living, to which he would delightfully ignore you. He would be mixing something and his headphones would be half on his ear and half off. You were nearly drowned out from the beat.

“And she _lets_ you get away with it?!” You’d ask, astonished.

“Yes.”

“Now _that_ is absolute hogwash, dear fellow.”

He had then gotten up and gone to the kitchen, you following along, and grabbed a package of ramen, and you know if he could see, he would’ve been holding eye contact with you as he pressed the buttons on the microwave.

“Let this be the night you actually indulge in _decent_ food,” you say now, leaning over his chair and peering at his screen.

“Ramen is decent. So are those Hungry Man dinners,” he replies, and he presses a warm hand to your face and pushes you away.

“Hardly. Those taste like my grandmother’s old socks. And besides, why not have something better than decent?” You exclaim, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t make something,” he replies. His shoulder tenses a little, but he doesn’t make a motion for you to move. You let it rest there comfortably, waiting to see if he’ll respond further. He doesn’t, instead taking his headphones and putting them all the way back on. He slowly relaxes, and you watch as he moves the sound controls to create whatever masterpiece he was working on. He doesn’t turn back to you though, and you know he’s told you, “Conversation over,” without saying a word.

You sigh, realizing that you’re not going to get anything out of him. You decide then that it’s going to be strudel, just as he jokingly suggested. Well, for dessert anyway. You have something better in mind for the main course. If he doesn’t like it, he can have that nasty ramen anyway. You want to make a good first--well, technically second--impression on Roxy. She was Dirk’s friend, as well as your cousin’s, and you didn’t want her to dislike you, did you?

== >

Your name is Roxy Lalonde and you’re on your way to see one of your best friends. Last time you’d seen him you’d been drunk off your ass, but you’re relatively sober now. Well, sober enough to drive anyway. You know Dirk would be upset if you showed up at his door more than tipsy. Or in a wheelchair from a car crash. He didn’t like you drinking. Hell, you didn’t like you drinking, but you had difficulty handling things sober. Your sister was to blame for that.

You avoid thinking about Rose and keep a firm grip on the steering wheel. Your wine bottles clink in the back as you turn down Dirk’s street and come to a halt in front of his building. It towers above you imposingly, but you can’t help but smile at the thought of seeing him again. You admit that you’re maybe a little in love with him, but you respect that he’s just not interested in women. Still hurts every once and a while, but that’s what your other friends were for. You tap the wine bottle next to you appreciatively, your nails clicking against it with a nice _click click._

You open the door, stepping out as gracefully as you can manage. Which isn’t very gracefully at all. It’s not because you’re drunk--you’re not-- and it’s not because you’re permanently walking impaired--once more, you’re not-- but more because you forgot that heels are an absolute _bitch_ to walk in at any time ever. You like to keep to your black boots.

Alright, so maybe you’re a little tipsy, but you’ve had trouble walking when you were more sober than this.

You come around to the backseat of your car, opening the door and collecting the two bottles of wine. You think you’d picked out some of the nicer brands, but what did it really matter? You were probably the only one who was going to drink them anyway. Dirk might take a sip, but other than that he tended to stay away from alcohol of any kind. You think maybe it might be from that night when he’d lost his sight. He’d gotten really drunk after talking with you. You feel like it’s your fault, so many years later still, that he’d been dumb enough to get drunk. He had never really had a lot to drink before that night. Every once and a while, yeah, he’d have a beer or maybe some vodka when you two set up a video chat, but otherwise he’d never have gotten so drunk he passed out.

You gulp, biting your black painted lips. You really shouldn’t think about this stuff now, or you’ll be a teary mess later tonight when you’ve had a little more alcohol in your system. You don’t want Dirk to see you in that much of a mess. Ever. Ever, ever, _ever._

You bundle the bottles in your arm, holding them close to your chest, and totter over to the doors of his building. You can see through the pristine glass into the vast interior, and your heart seizes in your chest briefly before you juggle with the bottles in your arm so you can open the door. You manage it awkwardly at best, and you prop the door open with your foot.

_Time to see Dirk,_ you think.

Taking a deep breath, you walk into the building.

== >

You glance at the clock. The strudel had five more minutes before it was supposed to be ready to remove from the oven. Roxy was due to arrive in three. You nervously fidget, glancing between the pastry and the clock several times and then back to the door, where you are anticipating a knock at any moment.

You’re not sure you’re ready for this. You love meeting new people. In fact, you relish it, but for some reason you’re not sure you can meet this Roxy Lalonde. You had come to the realization twenty minutes ago when it had dawned on you that this woman had a tremendous influence over both your cousin and Dirk. The three of them had been friends for ages, and you’d very happily collided in to be with Dirk every waking moment.

What if she didn’t like you? She could easily convince Dirk to fire you. She could easily convince Janey to keep you off speaking terms. You could easily be left alone in this world faster than you could say, “Nice to meet you!” You wonder if she’s jealous that you spend more time with her friend than she does. It’s your job though! It’s not like you would be here every waking moment if you weren’t paid, right?

You know this is illogical, but it still had you in a state of unrest. You’re not sure you can do this alone.

“Dirk!” you cry, and you run for his room. Stepping in though, you stop mid-breath as your heart catches in your throat and your eyes fall on his crumpled form. His mouth is agape and he looks so still. You don’t think you can even see his chest moving.

Instinct kicks in and shoves the panic out of your chest before you can even being to overreact and you’re hefting him up off the floor and into your arms. “Dirk?” you say, and lightly shake him. Of course there’s no response, so you place your head to his chest, listening. His heart is still beating perfectly well, and that makes you breathe a sigh of relief. He was still alive at least. And if you’re correct, you can feel his chest moving ever so slightly. He was breathing enough not to turn purple, so that’s certainly something. Still, it wasn’t enough for you to feel comfortable.

You decide perhaps some CPR is in order. You lay him back down on the floor quickly, and then situate yourself in the best position possible to administer the procedure. You’re about to press your mouth to his when to your surprise a smile cracks over his mouth, wide and smug.

“Got you,” he says, and pulls you down on top of him. It’s so sudden that it takes you a moment to register, but not quite so long as it had been before. You’re pressed against his chest, your face inches from his. You can see through those bloody ridiculous shades of his, to his eyes. They’re closed, which you really should have expected. He couldn’t really use them much anyway, could he?

Still, you’re caught by the length of his lashes, which if your vision is correct, are a light blonde. They’re so light they might be white, you suspect. But you can’t be sure through the darkness of his glasses. 

But enough of this! It’s time to get out of this before you’re both so completely engaged in fisticuffs that you miss Roxy’s arrival. You’re about to wriggle out of his grip when you hear feminine laughter. Well, not particularly gracefully feminine. There were plenty of hiccups and snorts mixed in.

You turn to see a woman standing in the doorway of Dirk’s room, petite shoulder resting against the wall. Her black lips are spread in a smile, her hand swishing wine in a crystal glass as she watches you. It’s the woman you saw just before you’d met Dirk. Roxy.

“Well, well, well,” she says, pushing herself from the wall, “am I interrupting something?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg chapter 10!!! i cant believe i made it this far.  
> enjoy this one!! it's a chapter of firsts.

You want to scream in anger as you feel Jake’s body slowly climb off you. He’s slipping from your grip like water or smoke, and all you can do is let him go. The fabric of his shirt leaves your fingers, and his warmth disappears, leaving you cold. You want to tug him right back, kiss him and ignore Roxy’s presence, but you know you can’t. You were so close to kissing him, to seeing if he would kiss you back. You probably should have set up this situation sooner than 7 p.m., but the idea hadn’t struck you until you’d heard him shout your name desperately and his pounding footsteps from the kitchen.

You’d promptly collapsed to the floor and waited. He’d paused in the doorway, but only for a second, before he’d rushed over and picked you up like you were a feather. He’d said your name again, the concern and the underlying panic evident in his resounding voice. He’d done exactly as you’d planned, noticing that your breathing wasn’t as strong as it could be. He’d been preparing to perform CPR. You’d almost had him. You’d been so damn close! And now Roxy was here, and the anticipation inside you won’t dissipate fully until she’s left. Your chest will feel tight for the rest of the evening. God _damn_ it.

You lay for a moment before pushing yourself up off of the rough carpet and standing. You can hear Jake fumbling for words, stumbling to say something, and Roxy’s silent amusement might as well be audible. The smell of wine comes from the direction of the doorway, pungent and sickly sweet. You keep your face passive, despite the urge for your lip to curl in disgust. God, you hate alcohol.

“Hey, Rox,” you say casually, attempting to cover your half-assed seduction method, and Jake’s mumbling ceases before he squeaks out a hi. Jesus, if he wasn’t the most adorable macho man you’d ever fuckin’ met.

“Hey, Di-Stri,” she says. Her voice is steadier than you’ve heard it in a while, and some of your tension falls from your shoulders. At least she wasn’t drunk. Yet. “So this fella here is Jake English, hrm?” There’s the soft sound of feet on carpet and the smell of wine grows stronger.

“Yes, that would be me!” Jake pipes up. You can almost picture his little wave.

“Pleasure to meet ya.” She drags out the word pleasure, letting it roll from her mouth. “Also, I’m puh-retty sure that you were the one cookin’, right?” she continues on. “Because we don’t let Strider here near the oven anymore.”

“Yes,” Jake says, his voice hesitant.

“Well whatever it is, it’s burnin’,” she replies, and starts to say something more, but Jake’s already out the door, his feet pounding on the floor as quickly as they can possibly go.

“Nice,” you say, allowing your mouth to turn upward in a smile.

“Thanks,” she replies, and you feel her smooth arm drape across your shoulders, pulling you into a hug. You let her, holding her into your chest as lightly as possible. She reeks of fermented grape juice, but underneath that you can smell her usual pink bubblegum perfume and the chalky smell of her black lipstick. “Bit of a panicky one, eh?” she says after a moment, but remains in your embrace.

You pull back, awkwardly disentangling yourself from her firm hold. “Yeah, “ you say, taking her wrists from your neck and bringing them downward. “I don’t think he knows the word calm.”

“Pretty upbeat dude though, yeah?” she says, and the smell of wine lessens. She’s taken a step back.

“Sometimes a little too much so,” you say. You’re still unsure how someone can be so cheery in the morning, even with so little sleep. You’ve yet to see the day when Jake English wakes up in a bad mood.

“Oh, is Jakey a morning person?” she says. “That clashes pretty hard with your sleepy ass.”

You’re about to retort when Jake’s deep voice, closer than the kitchen, interrupts. “I managed to save dessert,” he says, breathless. “It’s just a little crisp on the edges, but not too bad.”

“Sweet.” There’s a grunt from Jake and you can only assume Roxy’s slung her arm around him. “Shall we eat then? ‘m pretty starved, t’be honest.”

“Same,” you say, and you grab your cane, slinging it onto your wrist. You didn’t really need it for in the house, but with someone as unpredictable as Roxy, you like to have some precautionary measures.

“You’re not going to have ramen, Strider?” Jake asks, amusement coloring his voice.

“Not today, English,” you reply. You allow yourself another small smile.

“Well then! Prepare for the most delicious dinner you’ve ever had!” he exclaims, and you feel his warm arm tuck into yours, guiding you from the room to the kitchen. Roxy follows behind you, the soft sound of her feet on the carpet turning to the pad of her feet along the kitchen tile.

You inhale, allowing the smell of whatever the hell Jake cooked to fully permeate your senses. You catch mashed potatoes, the smell of cooked meat, eggs, and gravy. “Eggs for dinner, English?” you say say, lightly nudging his side.

“Sort of!” he says. “It’s an eggs and flour based meal!” He nudges you back, his elbow digging into your side. You wince, but don’t comment. He helps you sit down, which, if Roxy weren’t there, you’d tell him to stop, but she is, so you let it go. You’re trying to stay as relaxed as possible. As much as you love Roxy, when she brings alcohol, you’re more than a little uncomfortable. Your stomach starts to churn at the idea of it, and what it does to her. She’s wild without the alcohol, but with it, she’s even more so. You like a controlled environment; hell, you like to have some measure of control in any situation you’re in, and with a drunk Roxy, you don’t much of any control ever. Anything could happen with her here, and that could ruin your carefully laid plans with Jake.

There’s the clink of plates in front of you and the clunk of Jake’s boots across the floor. You realize he and Roxy had started chatting. She’s explaining to him what she’s doing in college. Her doctorate. You listen, leaning back in your chair and slinging your arm over the side, the perfect semblance of casualty.

“So, you’re essentially an expert in computer code?” he’s saying, voice flushed with interest.

“Well, I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” she says, and there’s a clink and the smell of wine. She brought her own. Of course. “But I know a poopton.” Poopton? “I could blow your computer if I wanted.” You can practically hear her winking at him. Only Roxy.

“Goodness,” he breathes. The smell of whatever he made is suddenly overwhelming as he puts it in front of you, and you release a breath from your mouth. It smells amazing to your starving stomach, but you weren’t expecting it quite so out of the blue. There’s the loud crack of a can opening and the hiss of a carbonated drink, and the soft _chink_ of a can on the table. He got you a soda.

Jake’s warm hand slips a fork into your hands. “I put it in a bowl for you,” he says. “Less chance of it escaping that way!” His fingers squeeze your briefly, and was it your imagination, or did they linger?

You gently run your fingers along the table until you find the heated bowl, pulling it toward you, and then stabbing the fork into whatever lies in the center. It’s heavy on your fork, so turn the utensil sideways, cutting the mystery meal in half and then in half again. You test another piece, finding it an acceptable weight, and take a bite, allowing yourself no time to think about what it is. You taste sausage, and onions and gravy. It’s soft, and melts on your tongue. You like it.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Jake says.

“Dang, Jake!” Roxy says, “What’s this thing called, mmm?”

“It’s toad in the hole,” he replies. “Something my grandmother used to make for Christmas! Well, any special occasion really. I thought Roxy visiting was special occasion enough!”

“Good choice,” you say quietly, and you take another bite.

“Thanks, Strider!” he replies. “I bet it’s better than that ramen you always have!”

“I will admit to that,” you say, smiling slightly. So, you like consistency with your meals. Nothing unheard of. You just don’t like mystery foods. You can’t see them, you can’t tell what they are, how do you know you’re not going to like something? Sure, it might smell good, but there’s always the possibility that there’s something you don’t like in there. You don’t have control. You at least know you like the microwave dinners. You probably should have let Jake know about your issue with food before he’d gone on that ridiculous shopping trip, but you couldn’t let the dude suffer with your shit meals. He could at least make something for himself.

There’s the clink of glass as Roxy pours herself another glass. What was that, the third? You think so, but you’re not sure. There’s another clink. Had she downed the first one that fast? Jesus.

They go back to their conversation about Roxy’s degree, and you finish your meal, listening in and occasionally adding a comment. You’re pretty proud that despite Roxy’s alcohol problem, she’d managed to get this far in school, paying for most of it with odd jobs, scholarships, and a little bit of money her mother had saved up. She owed a little, yeah, but less than she could have. You just wish that she would stop drinking so much.

“So, Dirk,” Roxy says, and you feel her cold, smooth palm rest on yours. You try to withhold the flinch of surprise, but it happens anyway, and she withdraws her hand. Goddamn it.

“Yeah?” you say anyway. Casual. Cool. You got this, Dirk. You’re under control.

“Found anyone on the market yet?” she says. Her voice is teasing, but you hear the underlying note of curiosity.

You shrug, reaching for the can of soda, and take a gulp. The carbonation makes your eyes water, but the fake orange taste calms you down enough for you to regain some measure of yourself. “Well,” you say, “you know me, Ro-lal. I don’t get out much.”

“Sure you don’t, but you’re online enough,” she replies.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers on the internet, Roxy?” You place the can back on the table, taking the fork again and twirling it in between your fingers.

“Sure she did,” she says, and there’s another clink. And then another. “Doesn’t mean online dating still isn’t a thing.”

“Dating?” Jake’s voice is curious, but do you detect something else?

“Yeah,” you say. “Even a blind man needs a little love in his life, English.”

“I wasn’t saying that you didn’t!” he splutters. “I just wasn’t aware you were looking, Strider!”

“I think I found a nice guy,” you say softly. “He lives in the area, too.”

“Oh _really,_ ” Roxy whispers, her voice dramatic with interest. “Just _how_ close.”

“Closer than you’d think,” you murmur, and you take the last bite of your meal.

Jake remains silent, but Roxy claps her hands excitedly, and then decides to tell you about the girl she’s currently seeing. You listen intently, congratulating her on the dates she’d planned and making comments on how wonderful this Callie seemed. You would fully invest yourself in the conversation if you thought she was serious about this, but she never really is. Jake doesn’t comment. You wish you could see his face. You want to read it. You wish desperately that you could read him like an open book, but without your sight, you have to go off his voice and anything else you can pick up without your vision. You silently curse those bastards that had stolen your eyes from you.

When he does speak, it’s just as cheery as it normally is, and your tense shoulders relax. “I think dessert’s in order!” he exclaims. Dishes clatter as he gathers everyone’s plates and places new ones in front of you. You smell something sweet, and it takes you a moment to figure out what it is, and when you do, you’re laughing.

“Strudel?” you say. “You weren’t joking.”

“ _Strudel,_ ” Roxy says, and she starts to laugh so hard she’s snorting again. Jake laughs, too, but it’s softer, more subdued.

“Yes, well, I hope you enjoy it.”

The three of you finish dessert up, Roxy continuing to talk about Callie, and then moving briefly on to talk about her classes once more, before she gets up to leave. Jake helps you up, his touches light and barely there, leaving you aching, and the two of you see her out. The smell of wine and pink bubblegum lingers though, wafting through the front room and back into the kitchen.

“Well,” Jake says, “that was quite the adventure.” He sounds tired, worn out. 

You brave a pat on his back, running your fingers down the taut muscles of his back before stealing your hand back to yourself. “Get some rest, buddy.”

“I think I’ll do just that.” He leaves you in the front room, alone, and maybe even more tired than he is.

== >

You’re woken from your sleep by the sound of someone entering your room and the smell of wine filling your nostrils. “Rox?” you groan, twisting in your sheets to sit up. The end of the bed dips, and then the shift of weight as someone crawls across to you. They’re heavier than Roxy, and your hand moves for your sword. You’ll be damned if someone takes away more than your sight.

They catch your hand, though, the palms rough and warm. Jake?

“Just me, Strider,” he whispers, and then suddenly you feel his warm mouth on yours, tongue pushing at your closed lips, hands moving from your own to cup your face. You can’t help yourself. You kiss back.

It’s everything you’d imagined and hoped for. The minute you reciprocate, his dominance fades, and you’re the one controlling the kiss. His hands fall back to rest on your shoulders, his legs over yours, straddling you as best he can. Your own hands drift up to cup his face instead, running your thumbs along his jawline slowly as you kiss him. Your stomach suddenly has butterflies. He tastes of alcohol and mint toothpaste and salt and _Jake._ But more than anything you can taste the wine.

You’re still half asleep, so you’re halfway to Boner City before you realize that he’s drunk. He’s drunk and not thinking and there’s the possibility that _he doesn’t really want you._ You break the kiss and shove him back, gasping for air like a goddamn tool. He whines your name and he’s back on you for a brief second. Part of you hesitates to shove him off, because this is what you want after all. But he’s drunk. He’s fucking _drunk_ and hardly in control of himself and _there’s no way he could possibly want you sober._ You shove him off again, grunting as you do so. “Get out, Jake,” you say. Your voice betrays nothing, but you let it sink to a deadly quiet.

“Strider,” he says brokenly, and he slurs your name, barely managing to get the word to sound right.

“Get. Out.” You say it a little louder this time, enunciating the words with a forced calm. You’re ready to explode, explode with anger and hate and despair. It’s all you can do to hold it in so he doesn’t see.

There’s the shuffle of bare feet and the soft click of your door, and he’s gone.

You let it go. You shout and swing your fist, hoping it connects with something, anything. It hits the headboard of your bed, sending a shockwave of pain up your arm, but you don’t care. You don’t care. _You do not care._

You know your anger is illogical, you know the hate swarming inside you is rash and ill-founded but you can’t help it. You can’t help but feel slightly betrayed by Jake, mostly because he had gotten drunk. You know he doesn’t know how much you hate alcohol, and how much you hate when people are drunk. You know he isn’t aware of how you lost your sight, and what part alcohol had played, but your brain and your heart and your whole body can’t help itself. You’re _angry._ How _dare_ he. How _DARE_ he.

Your fists clench in the sheets as your mind rolls in its turmoil. Why _didn’t_ he feel this way about you sober? What were you missing other than your sight? What made you _not good enough for him?_ Was is that you were too neurotic? Standoffish? Alright, so you’re not that social. So you just can’t interact with people. So you constantly put up the cool act so you can be anyone else but yourself. Because, if you face the facts, you hate yourself. You weren’t good enough for your parents to come back to you, you weren’t good enough for Dave to even pay you the slightest bit of attention, and you know you’re not good enough for Jake. So why would you be good enough for yourself?

You laugh softly, snaking your fingers through your hair over and over, breathing shaky and heart racing. You’re going down a dangerous road. The last time you’d really thought like this had been the night you’d lost your sight. You need to stop. Stop before you do something stupid and regret it later. You collapse back into your pillows.

Just take a deep breath, Strider. Deep breaths. Just breathe. Deep breaths.

Just…

Deep.

Breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay again!! i was working on scholarships, but i got admitted to uc davis!! yaaay

You wake up, your stomach in knots. It takes you a few moments for you to come to full consciousness, but when you do, you know something’s wrong. That something wrong being that you’re about to vomit the contents of your stomach. It gets everywhere: all over your sheets, down your front, and in your lap. You don’t think you’ve ever had such a terrible good morning in your life. 

You sit there for a few moments, disgusted with yourself, before sliding out of the bed and grabbing clean sheets on wobbly feet. You then take the dirty ones and wrap them up, careful not to touch your mess, and you throw them in the garbage. No use cleaning those nasty buggers up.

Afterwards, you crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over your head to block out the sunlight streaming from the window. You don’t remember much of last night, but from your splitting headache and dry tongue, you think you can guess. You only vaguely remember feeling upset, for whatever reason. You think you felt jealous of Roxy and Dirk. And whoever it was that Dirk had been courting. So you’d had a couple more glasses of the wine that Roxy had left behind. The last thing you coherently remember is thinking that opening the other bottle really couldn’t hurt?

Apparently, it could.

Why were you so jealous of Roxy and Dirk though? And whoever Dirk had interest in? You were just his caretaker! Nothing more, nothing less. Cripes, what in God’s name made you think that you deserved more attention than the next fellow? You rub your eyes blearily, sighing. You suppose you might’ve developed some feelings towards Dirk that might be more than a little possessive. You got along damn well with him, even with the few blips that came up every once and a while. He was a good friend.

You just wish you were his best friend.

You scoff at yourself, squeezing your eyes shut against the sunlight that still managed to stream through your blankets and take a deep breath. The covers smell like your grandmother, like pine and the outside. She would know what you were feeling right now. She could tell you exactly how to handle your feelings correctly.

Grimacing, you realize how much of a child you are. You want to handle your own problems, by Jove! And you shouldn’t be feeling so possessive over Dirk. He’s going to have friends besides yourself. And you’ve only known him for a little over month, right? You can’t be joined at the hip yet. Well, figuratively. You’re pretty much with him all hours of the day to help him out. That’s hardly an excuse to say you know him better.

He seemed so… at home with Roxy though. They’d known each other since they were children. At least, that’s what Roxy and Jane had told you. You’re tempted to pull out your phone and message your cousin, but you get the feeling she would get annoyed with you. You huff, turning on to your other side, and it feels like your heads about to explode suddenly. You curl up tighter, deciding it would be best to go back to sleep for a half hour more. Dimly, you recall that Dirk might need breakfast, but you’re already dozing off.

== >

You expect to wake up to Jake making breakfast and trying to get you to wake up like always, but he doesn’t. Instead, you wake up on your own, slowly and dreamily. For the briefest of moments, you forget that last night ever happened, but then it comes rushing back, and your jaw is immediately clenched as you feel around for your glasses and a pair of pants. Hal assists you, directing you with the measurements of the approximate locations your clothing.

“So,” Hal says after you’re dressed. You stand there, ignoring him, fiddling with your cane like a goddamn tool. You don’t want to go out there and hear Jake’s voice. You haven’t heard him all morning, and you can only assume he’s too scared to come in. That kind of pisses you off, but you should have expected it. You still wish he’d own up to his actions instead of avoiding them like a complete ass. You’re straightforward with bullshit like this. Why isn’t everyone else?

“So what,” you say.

“Are you going to go see him?”

You just shrug, scratching at your arm briefly. Your nails are incredibly blunt and it doesn’t do much good to eradicate the itch you’re having. “He can come see me himself,” you finally answer, and you sit down at your computer and start directing Hal to assist you with your latest creation.

* * *

It’s two hours later that you finally lose patience. You stand, walking out of the room, feeling along the wall for Jake’s door, and then banging on it with your fist. “English,” you say loudly. There’s no answer, so you fumble for the door handle and open it with a whoosh. The smell of cologne and old clothes washes over you, and it takes you a moment to sort through whatever stirs in your chest.

“English,” you say, and open your mouth to berate him when he groans. You close your mouth.

“Strider, I’m sorry about breakfast. Cripes, what time is it?” There’s the whisper of sheets as he tries to get up but then he moans and there’s a thump as he falls backward. “I don’t feel good,” he mumbles.

“You were drunk,” you say flatly, mercilessly.

“Yes, I gathered as much by this splitting headache,” he mumbles. “Last I remember, I’d only had a few glasses.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t remember anything?” you ask.

“Is there anything to remember other than getting completely trashed?” He attempts to get up again, and you think he succeeds because this time there’s no thump.

You hesitate, debating whether to yell at him for the night’s events. You wonder briefly if he’s lying to you to get out of the consequences of his actions. You doubt it. If there’s anything Jake is bad at, it’s definitely lying. He starts to stutter, and you can hear him fidgeting. He lied to you about forgetting the orange soda one evening. He’d gotten so flustered that you started laughing. It doesn’t take away how angry you are though. You’re still pretty pissed off at him, but you decide to swallow your anger for the moment. If he pulls something like what he did last night though, you make no promises to yourself or to him.

“No,” you breathe out slowly.

He remains silent as he gets dressed, his clothing rustling as he slides it over his body. Even after last night, you still can’t help but want to touch him, but you can’t, so you don’t. Instead, you lean against the wall and think about how much of an idiot you are for falling for such an obnoxiously oblivious man.

== >

TG: dirk  
TG: dirk hey  
TG: jesus are you gonna answer your goddamn phone  
TG: look i got shit to talk to you about the premier  
TG: i know i usually have bodyguards there for you and people to help you out but i need you to bring your new one  
TG: from what i hear hes pretty dorky but i guess hell do  
TG: i mean if hes got muscle and can handle a gun the right way thats all that really matters  
TG: dirk i know you can read this with your autoresponder  
TG: he reads this shit out loud to you  
TG: are you still mad at me for the last meeting we had  
TG: look im sorry  
TG: im kind of stressed out right now about various things  
TG: mostly to do with the movie but a couple other things  
TG: which involve you  
TG: christ you asshole how long are you going to ignore me  
TT: Sorry, I was busy with more important things than listening to you talk to yourself.  
TG: very funny  
TG: did you read any of that  
TT: I skimmed.  
TG: you didnt did you  
TT: No.  
TG: read it and weep  
TT: Why are you suddenly messaging me.  
TG: what do you mean  
TG: i message you all the time  
TT: Rarely.  
TT: Last time you messaged me on here was about three years ago.  
TG: sorry ive got movies to shit out  
TG: look just  
TG: during the premier bring your own bodyguard  
TG: ill have a couple others with you too  
TG: just make sure this guy can actually hold his own alright  
TT: Why?  
TT: Don’t tell me an alien race is about to take over the planet and we’re the first to go, Dave.  
TG: funny  
TG: just do it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (suspense)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates after five months  
> lol oops

Despite the desire to ignore your bro’s words, you don’t. He was a shithead, yeah, and he’d definitely fucked your life over more than he was ever going to be willing to admit, but you can’t help but note the actual concern in his texts this time. When had that ever happened? Not since you were a kid, that’s for damn sure. That was something that hurt like a goddamn bitch, but what were you going to do about it? Whine? Shit no. You’d grown out of your little boy boxers a long time ago and learned so suck things up.

You want to test Jake right away because of your bro’s concern, challenge him to an actual strife, but you’re loathe to do it after what happened those few nights ago. It still pains you to be around him, and every time you catch a whiff of whatever cologne he uses, you want to go into a baby tantrum because you didn’t get what you wanted. Because he didn’t remember. Because, goddamn, can’t something in your life go right for once?  
Ugh.

He notices your tension around him, too, and steers clear for the most part, which hurts even more, for whatever stupid reason your heart has decided to make up. He makes your meals, as per usual, comes in to check on you in your room periodically, and every once and a while, he’ll bring you a snack. Otherwise, you hear not a peep from him. While normally he’s chatting your ear off, mouth going a mile a minute and voice loudly and exuberantly describing the subject at hand, he’s quiet and reserved around you, just as tense as you are. His footsteps are lighter, more hesitant, versus the confident bounding you’ve sadly become used to.

This, bluntly put, sucks.

You want to confront him about that night, tell him that he was actually the biggest dick to ever walk the planet, but you don’t. You sulk in silence and you’re fucking stupid for doing it. You’re acting like a fifteen year old who got rejected by their crush, and are now passive aggressively trying to make said crush feel like shit. Which, you’re not, but that’s probably what it looks like. And even with your self-awareness of your immaturity over this whole stupid situation, you still find yourself doing it.

TT: You should get your shit together, Dirk.  
TT: Fuck off, Hal.  
TT: Good one. Because telling me to fuck off is obviously going to solve all your problems, Dirk.  
TT: You’re a coward for avoiding him.  
TT: Bro actually sounded like he fucking cared, and you’re going to ignore what he’s saying because you can’t pull up your metaphorical panties and confront the oblivious ass about something that he wasn’t even aware of.  
TT: That poor guy is 65.74% confused and 34.26% hurt about why you won’t actually talk to him.  
TT: I have my headphones off right now. He’s going to hear your automated messages.  
TT: Good. A bit of a push into fixing your bullshit is a good thing.

You stand up abruptly and grab your cane, switching the computer off and making your way to the kitchen. You can hear Jake cooking in there, pots and pans banging around as he makes whatever he’s got in mind for dinner. You can’t smell much yet, so you settle for sitting down at the kitchen table. You don’t think he notices you, because there’s not a word from him, just the sounds of his continued cooking, but you can’t be sure. The dynamic the past few days has been anything but normal, and there’s a chance he’s chosen not to greet you.

You inwardly laugh at yourself.

Doubtful.

This is Jake English and he’ll put up face whenever you’re around, no matter how weak and insubstantial.

“‘Sup,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear.

There’s the loud bang of something hitting the floor, and a quick inhalation of air, before he breathes out slowly with relief. “Strider,” he murmurs, “it’s only you.”

You nod slowly, suddenly unsure what exactly you’re doing, but now that you’re here there’s no going back. “Yeah, figured I’d see what you were makin’ for dinner.”

There’s the soft _tink_ as he sets whatever he’d dropped somewhere proper, and he says just as quietly, “Oh.” He doesn’t say anything for a moment after that, and your heart nearly stops and you think that maybe you’ve done the wrong thing in coming out here, in actually wanting to talk to him. To get out of this rut. _Shit, you were so stupid._ But then, in his normal, cheery voice, he says, “Oh, I’m just experimenting a bit with Gran’s old recipe for pasta! She didn’t make it quite the normal way, I’m afraid. I brought a few of her recipes on over with me, and confound it! I can’t seem to make heads or tails of this bugger right here.”

The breath you didn’t know you were holding releases, and you feel yourself slip into your Strider smirk. “I can’t smell anything yet, English. Seems like you may be doing something wrong.”

He snorts, slapping his hand onto the countertop with a resounding _smack!_ “Strider, that’s because I haven’t actually started the damned thing yet! I’m scrounging around for those damned noodles I purchased the other day…” He trails off, and you assume he’s poking and prodding around the kitchen.

“Did you leave it in the car maybe?” you suggest.

“Not a chance, old boy!” he exclaims. “I’d never forget the main ingredient of a meal in the car. That would be ridiculous.”

You wait for a few moments, and when his search remains futile, you pointedly sigh.

“Not a word, Strider! Those noodles are not in the car,” he says. You can imagine him pointing an accusing finger at you.

“It couldn’t hurt to check, dude,” you say, and you stand as if to make for the car yourself, but as expected, his warm hands are on your shoulder, gently pushing you back into your seat.

“No need to get up, chap! I’ll check at your insistence, but don’t expect me to return with anything at all! That car is as empty as Pooh Bear’s stomach in the morning!” he says, and you listen as his footsteps make for the door. They’re bursting with confidence again, and it makes your heart soar more than you’re willing to admit. You can’t believe what an ass you are for holing yourself up.

“So, essentially, full?” you reply. “That was a really shitty metaphor, dude.”

“Well I never said I was an _expert!_ ” he huffs, and there’s a loud click as he closes the front door behind him.

== >

Your name is Jake English, and you’re wondering what in tarnation is going on with your employer! For nearly a week now the fellow has barely spoken to you, and suddenly he’s conversing with you as if everything is fine and dandy! You’re at a loss as to what to do, and you ponder your options as you go down to your car. You could certainly confront him, but you never really did like direct confrontations. That had ended up with you in a boatload of trouble in the past. You always end up letting a situation worsen whenever you avoid direct confrontations.

You exhale with some frustration as you open the passenger door of the car to find the noodles placed in the cupholder. Damn, he’d been right. You should have expected as much, really. Forgetful might as well be your middle name with everything that escapes your mind.

You grab the noodles, and close the door of the car, if a bit roughly. Dag nab it! You’ve never been the most adept at social situations, and you can’t seem to figure out what could possibly be wrong with Dirk. It occurs to you that perhaps you’d done something when you were drunk, but you brush it off. What could you have possibly done? Nothing comes to mind, really.

You step back into the building and then the elevator, noodles firmly in your grasp. You decide that perhaps you’re overreacting to the whole Strider thing. Maybe it was something personal and you had no need to worry about it! You were just _taking_ it personally, when in reality, it was Dirk’s issue. You think that that’s what it is. However, with this thought in mind, you resolve to ask him what’s wrong. You wouldn’t be a very good caretaker if you didn’t make sure your charge was all right!

You’re devising ways to talk to Dirk about this (it’s so hard to get that damned man to give you a straight answer, some days, and you expect asking him about this will be no different) as you fumble with your keys to the door. When at last you’ve opened it, you’d like to say you saw it coming, but of course, you didn’t. You were too busy being distracted about what to do about this damn situation.

Dirk’s on top of you in under an instant, pinning you to the ground lickety split, like a wild cat onto some poor unsuspecting deer. You stare up at him, shocked for a brief moment, before you decide to take action. You assume this is another one of his tests, and you can’t afford to fail.

You buck your hips upward and throw him off, rolling over to try to pin him down, but he’s moved away faster than you anticipated, and is coming for you again. You hop to your feet and move out of the way, but you’re loud and clunky in your boots, and Strider’s ears are far more attuned to noise than yours ever could be. He’s headed for you again, throwing a punch at your face, where you know you must be breathing loudly, but your dodging reflexes were always good. You leap out of the way, trying to keep your footsteps a little more quiet, but those darned boots won’t have it.

He’s charging at you once more, but you’ve got him this time! You lift your leg up to kick him solidly in the stomach. He’s moved though, before he ever gets in range of your foot, and is jabbing you in the side his fist.

A grunt escapes you, and you murmur, “Bloody hell,” but you go right back to it, taking the initiative this time, and coming at him. You manage to land a blow to his shoulder, and it almost makes your heart burst as you watch his face contort even the slightest, but he’s got you against the wall in another moment, knee at your crotch and wrists firmly in his grip.

It’s a wonder this man is blind.

“Strider,” you exhale, “What the devil fucking dickens is this malarkey all about?”

“I’m supposed to test you,” he says flatly. “So far, you’re failing.”

“I thought you’d already tested me, Strider! I thought damn well that I’d passed!” you exclaim, suddenly scared. You were an alright fighter, and certainly strong enough, but you’d never come across someone quite like Dirk. This was a fight that had your heart racing, and you were up against someone with a disadvantage.

“I was told to give you a second test,” is his reply.

You gaze into the glass of his shades, trying to make out his eyes, but you can’t. You realize that you’ve never seen his eyes, not once. It bugs you. You’re unbelievably tempted to take those glasses off right here, right now, but one, you can’t, and two, you’d probably be in for a world of hurt. You’re not that stupid! So instead, you take a deep breath, and you say, “Strider, what’s wrong?”

There’s silence from him. Not a word. You press forward anyway. “You’ve been distant these last few days and I’m concerned! I didn’t think it was much of my business, but I thought you’d gotten out of your funk! And yet now you’re attacking me as you had that first day. I’m damned confused, frankly!”

He continues to remain silent, and with a huff, you headbutt him.

He goes down easier than you thought, falling to the ground and holding his head with a moan. “Strider?” you breathe in shock, and you’ve got him in your arms as quickly as you can manage. He doesn’t respond, and you’re feeling like an enormous piece of shit for even doing that. You were aware of his headaches. He’d professed their existence to you sometime ago, and you’d exploited that in a split second decision. You swallow hard, and say, “Does this mean I pass?”

He nods, leaning his head into the crook of your neck and breathing deeply. You realize this feels nice. It’s almost like he… fits. You smile at the thought and rub his back gently. “Sorry about that, Dirk,” you murmur, “I won’t ask anymore if you don’t want me to.”

He gives a half-hearted shrug. “‘S’nothin’ you need to worry ‘bout,” he says.

You pull him closer at that, patting his back a little awkwardly. “Well, don’t hesitate to come to me in times of need. I may not be the sharpest tool, but I give a mean hug!”

He laughs at that, breath coming out in soft puffs against the back of your neck. “Yeah, I can tell.” He pauses, and you can tell he’s got something else to say, so you wait patiently, letting him take his time. “The premier’s next week,” he says finally. “We have to go.”

“Premier?” you murmur. “For your brother’s movie?”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly, and you realize you’re still holding him. You make no move to let go, however, enjoying the feeling of him. You wonder if he’ll get mad at you. “You have to be prepared for anything. That’s what my bro said. So something’s probably going to happen. You think you can handle it?”

You grin, nodding and tightening your hold on him a little more. “To be sure! I’ll be able to carry my guns with me, won’t I? I don’t miss, Strider, trust me on that! You’ve never seen me use those sick puppies, but rest assured you won’t be disappointed when you do!”

“Let’s hope that ‘when’ will only ever be an ‘if.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so sorry about how late this update was ;;  
> ive had a lot going on in the past five months and ive had some serious thought over this fic as well  
> im hoping that i can improve it!!  
> also this wouldve been up earlier today but today of all days my net was like LOL NOPE NOT GONNA WORK  
> ill try to update a little faster this time guys <3 thank you so much for reading!!! please please please do not hesitate to tell me what you think whether its on here or on my tumblr (my url is yourparabatai once again)  
> thank u!!!! <33333


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well apparently im making it a trend to update every 5-6 months. once again, sorry for the delay, but i just started my first year of college, and its been busy as hell. thank you to all the new readers though and the compliments ive gotten!! they mean so much <3 i don't promise an update anytime soon, but i will get to the very end of this fic if it kills me. enjoy!!

You think you might be sick if you don’t get on the plane immediately. Like right the fuck now, immediately. Every muscle in your body is tense, tightly wound and ready to spring loose, to scream at the drop of a dime. Your heart is pounding in your throat and your lungs have suddenly lost half their size as you struggle to breathe. You can feel eyes on you as cameras snap and voices murmur your name, some even bold enough to yell it out.

“Dirk! Dirk Strider, what do you have to say about your brother’s recent movie?”

“Mr. Strider, do you have any commentary on your brother’s relationship with his assistant, Mr. V--”

“Dirk, is the character Sweet Bro a reference to you somehow?”

The only thing comforting is Jake’s warm hand on your shoulder as he directs you towards the boarding walkway. You keep your chin up confidently, even as you feel like your insides are about to erupt. You hold your cane firmly in front of you, tapping it gently from side to side, affirming your each and every step. It’s not an entirely slow process--you’d gotten good at moving quickly--but you still wish you could go faster. 

As soon as you feel the hollow, thin floor of the boarding walkway though, you relax immediately. Your shoulders almost sag, except you remember Jake is there, and so is anyone else who could see you still. There were still appearances to keep up. The sound of the reporters slowly dies down as you make your way towards the plane entrance, careful to mind the gap between the walkway and the plane when you make it to the end. The minute the attendants have you seated, you release a shaky breath, turning your head upward before sinking into the seat.

“Alright there, chap?” Jake asks, and his hand, having left your shoulder the moment you’d sat down, moves to rest on your leg. Not anywhere near where you’d like it, but on your leg nonetheless. _Daring move there, Jake,_ you think, but withhold any comments. You’re still not sure how you felt about that night with him, and even though you know he told you the truth that he remembered nothing, your mind has still managed to come up with every possible seed of doubt. Flirting, for the moment, was not an option.

“Yeah,” you reply instead, and turn to face the sound of his voice. “The reporters are just a little irritating.”

He pats your leg a bit roughly, and if you didn’t already have such a tight rein on your facial expressions, you’d have flinched. “They were a bit noisy, to be sure. Certainly forward, too! I had to move a few back! The rest of your brother’s lackeys weren’t up to snuff!” He sniffs loudly, and shifts, clothing rustling and hand almost leaving your leg. Only the tips of his fingers remain. You think he might have looked back at the other guards as if to make a point. It makes the corners of your lips turn upward in a smile. Just a little, anyway.

“Calm down there, big guy,” you say. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

“They’ve yet to prove it,” he huffs, and shifts back, his hand returning to its original position on your leg. By now, it’s past the point of socially acceptable to have his hand on your leg. At _this_ point, it’s a goddamn statement. A possessive one. If it were you with the hand on his leg, you’d start moving it up and down here, in public or not. He doesn’t though, and it makes you think that he’s probably oblivious to the correct time limit for touching your employer’s leg.

Well, friend’s leg.

He was definitely your friend. You can’t live with a person without getting to know them at least a little. Whether you became friends or not really depended, but you think it’s a safe call to consider Jake at least a friend. Even if every once and a while you had to hold yourself back from buying a one-way ticket to Boner-Central. First Class.

You take a deep breath, and turn your head to face forward again, careful not to lean too far back into the seat, lest you ruin your hair. “Yeah, well, hopefully both you and the stooges are capable of stopping whatever the hell my brother is worried about.”

“Do you know what he could be so damned worried about?” he asks, his voice soft with concern.

You shrug, still painfully aware of his hand on your leg. God, _what was he doing._ “Hell if I know. I stopped trying to understand Dave a long fucking time ago.”

He falls silent briefly, his hand suddenly a heavy weight on your thigh. “Strider,” he says, his voice quiet, with the hint of a question at the end. You turn your head and cock an eyebrow to indicate you’re listening, and he continues. “What did happen with your brother?”

You can feel your face shift into one of shock, your heart freezing for one brief moment, before you can get a handle on the feeling. Why the hell is Jake asking you this? “I,” you begin, but you stop, and shove the feeling into the furthest corner you can. You’re still not sure about Jake being a _best_ friend, Jesus. 

“It’s a long story,” you mutter, and turn to face forward again, contorting your face back into the smoothest mask you can manage. That’s not something you like to talk about, even with Jane and Roxy. They know because in your few moments of weakness, you’ve asked for their shoulders, but for the most part, you keep your relationship with Dave under wraps.

“It’s not an especially long plane ride,” he murmurs, “but there’s time enough to tell a story.”

“Dave’s an asshole, English,” you reply, your tone steely and business-like. “End of story.”

He goes silent again, and the absence of warmth on your thigh means he’s moved his hand back to his lap. God _damn_ it.

== >

Strider remains quiet for the entirety of the plane ride, stonily looking out the window. Or at least, not facing you. You suppose that you had perhaps overstepped a boundary or two by asking, but you’d only asked because you’d thought the two of you were back on decent terms again! Well, decent enough to have a conversation that didn’t involve small talk. Apparently not though.

You do try to get a few more words out of him, picking topics he’d perhaps want to discuss, but he replies with an air of detachment, and eventually you decide that shutting up was the best and only option. Perhaps it was because he was nervous about seeing his brother again? That was likely, certainly, but you can’t help but get the feeling that it was your fault he’d zipped his mouth up nice and tight for the trip.

You sigh and lean back, checking your watch. There was still a good twenty minutes of the flight left, and you certainly weren’t going to make conversation with any of the guards that Dirk’s brother had sent. They all seemed a bit too uptight and arrogant. Pshaw! They hadn’t even effectively kept the paparazzi off of Dirk. Why, you had had to push a few back from getting too close to the poor fellow. They’d given you indignant looks, but you’d pointedly flashed the official bodyguard tag Dirk had so graciously bequeathed you with. That hadn’t been very successful, but it had still been more than a little satisfying to do so. You’d felt like you’d popped right out of the movies!

You smile a little to yourself, supremely pleased at this turn of events. Your pistols were, unfortunately, not with you, but you’d have them soon enough. In a little over twenty minutes, most likely. That addition would make the movie-feel complete. You’d even brought with you a nice green jacket to pull them out of and in a rather dramatic fashion. You knew better than to do things exactly like they were done in the movies, but you were still a die-hard fan of all the action films to the very end.

You decide reading a book would be best to occupy your time with, and reach into the knapsack you’d brought aboard as a carry-on. The book you pull out is worn from multiple reads, but that only makes you smile a little more. _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ had always been one of your favorite books, and you remember your grandmother reading it to you when you were young. She’d given you this copy of the book in particular at the beginning of high school, telling you proudly that before she had owned it, her grandfather had owned it, making it one of the first in print. It had been rebound several times over, and many of the pages had been hastily taped in after an unfortunate accident, but it was all still there and just as cohesive.

You flip it open and start from where you had last left off, just as they were descending into the crater. You get so involved with them slowly going into the depths of the Earth, you’re jolted back to reality by the sudden jerk of the plane landing on the runway. You blink a few times to reorient yourself before looking at Dirk, who’s facing you now. As soon as the plane comes to a halt, he stands, cane at the ready. You scurry to stuff your book into the knapsack and put it on your back, and then move out of Dirk’s way so he can get out. 

“Let’s get this ordeal over with,” he says as he passes you, face grim.

You swallow thickly, suddenly a bundle of nerves, and follow behind him as he taps his way to the plane exit. You sincerely hope this won’t be as bad as predicted.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant believe i fucking updated this finally?

There’s something about being in Dirk’s brother’s presence that gives you the chills. Dirk and yourself are immediately ushered out of the airport and into one fancy schamncy car, where he sits in wait. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and his white blonde hair is swept to the side in a neat trim. What really unsettles you though is the complete and utter lack of emotion carefully placed on his face. You can’t keep your eyes off the bloke, if you’re honest. He’s got this air of pure charisma. It’s a little cold, and a little dark, and you’re not entirely sure you like it. Perhaps this is why Dirk is so indifferent, if not downright contemptuous, towards his elder brother.

You think he stares right at you, but you can’t be sure, what with his aviators perched on the bridge of his nose, as you get in the car. Much like Dirk, he seems to have an aversion to showing his eyes. Come to think of it, you’d never seen Dirk’s eyes either. Perhaps it was because he was blind and they were discolored? You can’t be sure. Nor can you be sure just as to why Dave had always been seen with sunglasses on as well. Maybe you’re overthinking it too much, but it’s a wonderment nonetheless.

“So you’re Jake, huh,” he says to you, and you notice that he’s got what must be a slight Southern drawl. It would be charming, maybe, if he didn’t sound so darn condescending. You decide that you won’t let that faze you one bit, however, so you respond with as much gusto as you can possibly muster.

“That would be me, yes. Happy to be of service!” You smile as politely as you can manage, even though deep down you’re more than a little intimidated and want nothing more than to curl up and turn away. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he continues, as though you’d never said anything at all. “Not from Dirk here though. Mostly from the Lalondes.”

“You talked to Rose?” Dirk says from your left. His face is turned towards the window, chin resting in the palm of his hand, sightlessly staring outward in what must be mock disinterest.

“Roxy,” Dave corrects him. “Rose won’t say shit to me anymore for whatever reason. I think she’s a little pissed that I didn’t read her book that just got published. But I was never one for wizard slash.”

“Frigglish is pretty cool,” is all Dirk has to say to that, and the car falls into an awkward silence for the rest of the ride, and while it has you on edge, Dirk and Dave seem perfectly pleased to not speak a word. Part of you is tempted to maybe strike up a conversation, like you’re prone to do in any awkward silence, but something tells you that it wouldn’t be appreciated on either end. So, you sit in silence and stare out the window, same as Dirk, until you pull up to a hotel. You look at Dave questioningly, but he ignores you, instead turning to Dirk.

“Will you stay here for a moment? I wanna talk.”

Dirk doesn’t so much as move, he only murmurs a soft, “Sure,” and then Dave turns to you, right as the car door opens. You take the hint and clamber out, closing the door behind you. The chauffeur that had opened your door directs you to the hotel, and you’re ushered inside hurriedly. You barely have a chance to look back as Dave slams the car door shut and Dirk disappears from your line of sight.

“Consarn it,” you breathe out, but continue to follow the chauffeur into the hotel. It’s enormous within, with a vaulted ceiling and a crystal chandelier dangling from above. The hotel in which Dirk had taken up residence in San Francisco was certainly fancy as well, but not compared to this monstrosity. You’re not quite sure that the shining gold on the walls here isn’t _real_. You look everywhere, making sure to take in every inch of the interior. It would seem Dave spared no expense when his brother visited. You’d think perhaps that maybe it was some form of endearment or concern for Dirk’s health if it weren’t for Dave’s demeanor in the car. The man was a jerkwad if you’d ever laid eyes on one, and this was no doubt for appearances alone. Heck, there was a man with a camera snapping your photo just over there. 

The chauffeur seems to signal a woman at the desk, who merely nods at him and puts a phone to her ear. You can assume the room was prepared ahead of time. He guides you to the elevator, to which you stand off to the side rather awkwardly. The fellow didn’t speak much, and it was making you a bit antsy, this continued silence. He presses his finger into the button for floor ten, and there’s the tummy-tossing jolt as the elevator starts, and up you go. By the time he’s gotten you to the room, you’ve driven yourself just about mad. Your head hurts from attempting to maintain a polite stance and keep ahold of your already deprived social skills and you can’t tell if your stomach is churning from the elevator or from your nerves.

“Your belongings will be here momentarily,” he says before he leaves, and all you can manage is a short nod before he’s gone. You sit on one of the two beds, practically falling into it with how tired you suddenly feel, and take in the room. The grandeur remained much the same as below, just on a smaller scale. The furniture looked brand-spanking-new, and the decorations looked a tad too expensive to even be allowed in the same vicinity as you. You pick up a crystal piece on the nightstand beside you, turning it in your fingers, before gently putting it down. A plasma screen TV set sits on a stand in front of the two queen sized beds, the screen matte and blank. Turning, just to be certain, you see there are two chocolates and a mint resting gently on your pillow. Not ever in your life had you ever been subject to such luxury.

Your phone gives a few buzzes and you pull it out of your pocket to find that it’s a text from Jane. You breath a sigh of relief. Somehow the thought of conversing with your cousin, even just via text, is enough to soothe the snakepit of your anxiety.

GG: Hey there, Jake! How’s everything going?  
GT: Well enough i spose… I must confess im in a bit of a tizzy currently trying to sort myself out.  
GT: Who would have thought that this whole affair would be so taxing on the nerves?  
GG: That’s Hollywood for you. :B  
GT: Well i wouldnt necessarily chalk it up to just that per se…  
GT: Its more that dirks dadblasted elder brother is well… well… hes dadblasted to say in the least!!  
GG: I never liked him, myself! He always seemed too distant to me… Is everything else going alright?  
GT: Just dandy and i mean that without any sarcasm. However im none too sure i can guarantee that for much longer. My nerves are starting to get the best of me and im plum exhausted now.  
GT: Enough about me though. How are things going with you?

The doorknob jiggles some, and the chauffeur comes in with the luggage, followed by what appears to be a very disgruntled Dirk. The bags are placed to the side of the door and the chauffeur exits the room and turns to say a few words. Dirk slams the door behind him before the he can open his mouth, and then moves his guiding stick around some to scope the area. Better alert him to your presence.

GG: Thanks for asking Jake! Things are going pretty well, actually. Roxy is over for a visit right now!  
GG: heeeey jakeroonie ;)  
GG: That was her, not me.  
GT: Whoops sorry jane! Ive got to jet for the moment but ill catch up with both you lovely ladies later!  
GG: Oh, alright. Bye, Jake!

“Strider,” you say, “Over here!”

His head turns in a flash, but he doesn’t say anything for a few moments, before his shoulders slump and he finds his way over to you. “Sorry to leave you hangin’ there, buddy,” he says, and he nearly sits in your lap before you manage to scoot over.

“No worries! Well, on my end, anyway. Everything alright with you?” You lean back into the bed, the cushions sinking under your weight, and use your elbows to prop you up.

“Just the usual. The guy doesn’t know shit about maintaining personal relationships.” Dirk pauses for a moment, mouth parting slightly as he thinks. “Not that I really do either,” he finishes.

“That’s a load of hogwash,” you scoff, shaking your head. “Listen here, Dirk Strider, you’re alright. Sure you can appear a bit standoffish at times but nothing like your brother. I see what you meant about the fellow! He’s a great big--”

“Dickhead.”

“Precisely.”

A smile tugs at his lips, and the one already forming on your own breaks into a grin. “Let’s forget about him for the night, shall we? We don’t have to do anything concerning your brother until the premier tomorrow evening, right?” You stand, moving over to the luggage and pulling out a few movies you’d had the sense to pack.

“I know you can’t see, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a good film. Besides, I’m an expert at description. I can give you a play by play of every move these folks pull. What do you say?”

Dirk stares blankly in your direction, before that smile tugging at his lips pulls upwards into a smirk. “Sure.”

== >

It’s dark. Dark, but you can see. You can see your brother, standing above you, dressed just as you remember last seeing him: hair mussed slightly, shades crooked, shirt undone and pants wrinkled. You can see that his face is twisted in anger, and you can see the red of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. In his hand, he holds a bottle of acid that glows softly. He leans forward, and to your horror, begins to tip the bottle over towards your eyes.

“Wait!”

The word spills out of your mouth before you can stop it. Thankfully, he freezes, and he stares at you in astonishment. Your hands are slicked with sweat as you unapologetically raise your hand towards him. Slowly, you take Dave’s hand. “Please,” you murmur, “Please don’t do this to me. I want to see.”

“I can’t,” he says quietly, face softening momentarily before contorting in terror. “I can’t do that. This is my punishment.”

“Punishment?” you say scornfully, and sit up slightly. “Punishment for what? For leaving me?”

He shakes his head. “I regret doing that, but it was for your safety. You couldn’t be close. You couldn’t be close and yet they still found you. They found you and they punished me by hurting you. This is my punishment.” 

His hand shoots out and grips your shoulder, followed by him shoving you back down to the ground, knocking your head to the kitchen floor with a crack. It barely registers that it should actually hurt, because it doesn’t, but you’re not concentrating on that right now. You’re concentrating on the looming bottle that he’s tipping over. It’s hazy, and you can barely focus on it, but the minute the liquid pours free, your eyes are on fire.

_It hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it--_

You lurch forward from the bed, barely containing the insides of your stomach as you wake from the dream. Jake startles beside you, the sheets moving beneath you as he shifts, and there’s a sharp intake of breath from him. But you don’t care about him right now. Right now it _hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts._ Your eyes burn beneath your shades, and you rip them off, rubbing at your eyes with the heels of your palms until tears begin to form at the inner corners.

Warm hands are suddenly on your shoulders, and you know you should enjoy this, lean into it, but instinct has you jerking away violently, and you stand, heaving in every breath. You can’t see again, and you’re in the hotel. You’re in the hotel with Jake. Distantly, you can hear Chris Pratt speaking with Zoe Saldana, discussing dancing. You were watching a movie with Jake. Or… Listening to a movie with Jake. You’re not back home in the kitchen, and Dave is no doubt in his apartment suite right now, living it up with whoever his latest sex toy is. He’s nowhere near you right now.

When at last you manage to stop shaking, Jake’s hand slips into yours, and this time you allow it. Slowly, he leads you back to the bed, and gently helps you get yourself situated back into a comfortable position. Not a word escapes his mouth, and for once, you’re grateful he’s quiet. Both of you settle back into the movie, and you ride it out, staying awake through every moment, even though you can’t see anything and can barely understand what’s happening. You’re still stiff with remnants of fear, and even Jake’s presence and the familiarity of his hand does nothing to calm you down. Every once and a while, Jake leans over and murmurs to you an important detail, and you nod your appreciation. 

When the ending theme finally begins to play, you know your blessed silence is up. Jake turns to you, the sheets tugging around you and the shifting rustling in your ears. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Not particularly,” you say.

There’s more silence from him, the music from the credits the only sound, and then he continues. “Do you want to talk about what happened in the car, then?”

“No.”

The time in the car spent alone with your brother had been brief and inconsequential. If Jake thought that had spurred your nightmare, he was wrong. The most Dave had said to you was that Jake was an eyesore, and you were lucky you were blind. You’d been pretty snarky right back, saying something to the effect of how God had blessed you to be blind to Dave’s sorry face. He had laughed some, which had pissed you off, and he’d continued to talk about being careful for the premier. You’d listened, sure, but frankly you were more pissed off at the earlier commentary that you didn’t particularly care.

Jake doesn’t say anything else, and you both continue out to the old 80’s hits of the movie before at last it’s over. Jake’s still silent, and you almost wonder if it was him who’d knocked out this time, but he proves you wrong by squeezing your hand once before removing it.

It’s then that something inside you decides to act on impulse, and you turn your body towards him, facing him as best you can. You realize that your shades have been off for the entirety now of this movie, and while you’re more than a little worried, you hope that maybe this helps the situation you’re about to create for yourself.

“So… isn’t this the part where we make out?”


End file.
